Here With Me
by KuradoNinja
Summary: AU- Isabelle French moves to Storybrooke with the hopes of starting her life anew while hiding a tragic secret. Everything changes, however, when she ends up under the employment of the notorious Mr. Gold.
1. Chapter 1

**Suggested song for this chapter: "Scarlet" by Brooke Fraser.**

**x~X~x**

Another year without her...

Mr. Gold didn't voice his opinions out loud, but he absolutely hated it when people stared at him, especially while out and about in public. It was quite childish of them honestly- the way these fools would openly regard him with either fear or mistrust. Which is exactly why he would always glare back, terrifying them all the more. He dared them to say it, to voice out their pity for the woman he'd lost. He _dared_ them.

But nobody dared to mess around with their landlord, especially when it concerned his beloved.

Whether he be collecting rent or grocery shopping he was seen by anyone, though the majority of his time was spent secluded away under his little pawn shop, working on God knows what for long hours at a time, day after day, year after year. Why he would even open a business when nobody had courage to speak with him willingly was beyond nonsensical, but then again, he was the "boss," one who practically owned all of Storybrooke.

At one point in his life, he was happy- happier than anyone remembered seeing him. She'd came into his life unexpectedly, becoming a source of light unto his dark world. She believed in him like no one else would, seen the goodness that no else ever saw.

Rubbing away the lingering itch of his unshaven chin, Mr. Gold glared at the staring passersby as he walked across the town center, the limp in his leg getting worse with every year that passed. When he did what he did, nobody questioned his motives. Always cruel, always taunting, always threatening. His heart creating a impenetrable wall of blackness that surrounded his entire demeanor.

At least, that was before Isabelle French had unexpectedly breached right through it.

* * *

It was a rainy day in October when they had moved into the quiet little town known as Storybrooke, Maine. Coming to America had, at first, been an exciting experience for Izzy as she sat on the seventeen-hour flight from Melbourne, Australia, too anxious to sleep. For years, her family had dreamed of moving to America. It had been her late French mother's dream that her only child and daughter should learn of its democracy and politics, regardless of the miniscule history the states had compared to most countries. Her father, an Australian by birth, couldn't resist the temptation, but became ultimately ashamed that he gave into it after his beloved wife passed way.

Izzy was used to moving. What with her father being a florist and all, he had a passion for botany, traveling wherever he could in Europe with his little family to learn of every plant he could get his hands on. As a small child, Izzy had loved it. Going from place to place, year after year, was an adventure she'd never forget.

Everything changed when her mother died, and then...

"Lovely weather we're having today."

Her attention being torn away from the rain-pelted window, Isabelle looked at her smirking father, and smiled. "Yes. Quite lovely."

Driving down an ongoing road surrounded by woodland where the clouds were gray and the rain was angry. How lovely indeed.

"We're almost there," her father- a slightly portly man with kind, blue eyes- promised her. "And you can finally stretch out your legs once we arrive if you want to."

In this weather? Izzy thought as she frowned. Probably not the best of ideas as she preferred to remain safe than sorry. But they had been driving from Logan International Airport for two hours now; getting the blood racing back into their feet would be a great blessing for the both of them.

"Here it is," her father announced, the windshield wipers doing a poor job at clearing away the rain from the dashboard window. Even so, Isabelle could see Storybrooke for what it was.

Small, and shabby.

Slowly, their van moved into a smooth drive through the heart of the town, and Isabelle squinted at trying to get a better look at the dainty shops and stores as they passed on by. Regardless of the lacking activity this town had to offer, Izzy had no other choice but to make the best of it. For both their sakes.

* * *

Mr Gold frowned, watching from his window as the obnoxious van obviously belonging to an obnoxious owner parked onto the side of his shop.

Releasing the thin curtain, he quickly limped his way back behind the counter, resuming his work on a small rococo clock. The old device had been quite a challenge to fix these last few days, and it was beginning to annoy him.

Don't get him wrong, he had been expecting Mr. French for quite some time now. As landlord of this town, his job was to provide the abode, while his renters provided the money. Like the rest of his tenants, Mr. French wouldn't be treated any differently, and since there were no other florists in town, he was the perfect candidate for the job, not that Mr. Gold cared. As long as the man remembered his place by paying his monthly dues, him and his family would remain content for as long as they lived here.

_Family._ Mr. Gold scoffed, as if the very word itself was unwanted by him. Little was revealed about the man's history, in which Mr. French preferred to keep his and his family's personal matters a secret, which in Mr. Gold's humble opinion, was foolish. Hidden secrets didn't last long in this town anyway.

The bell to his shop jingled loudly. "Mr. Gold?" A thick voice called.

He fought the urge to smirk. Who else owned the only pawn shop in this town?

The aging man quickly shut the door behind him, shaking off the wetness and coldness of the rain as he closed his umbrella. He walked towards the counter. "Don't know if you remember me or not," he said with an amiable smile, offering his hand in greeting, "but my name's Moe French and- "

"Yes, yes." Brushing away the greeting with a disinterested wave, Mr. Gold glanced up from his work. "I remember you; been expecting you all day, in fact."

Mr. French furrowed his eyebrows together, his hand falling back to his side. "You have?"

Him and Isabelle were originally suppose to arrive next week.

"Last I checked, you were the only rookie in Storybrooke who signed for the position as a florist." Setting aside his tools, Mr. Gold picked up his cane and headed towards the center counter at the back of the shop. Mr. French, unsure of what to do, followed him to the front of it. "Now, all the arrangements have been made," he pulled out a manilla folder, sliding it towards the man, "I shall expect you to make all of your payments on time and full by the middle of each month; please note in specific detail of the consequences should you be unable or decide not to. And I do not, by any circumstances, lend out extensions."

His eyes carefully skimming across the well-organized pages, Mr. French resisted the urge to gape in horror. "Five thousand dollars a month for both the apartment AND the shop, minus utilities and electric bills?"

Mr. Gold shrugged casually. "Everybody has to earn a living in this town somehow, Mr. French. You'd be no different."

"But... but..." There was absolutely no way he'd be able to pay these bills by himself, and Isabelle... "I can't... it's all too much."

A raised eyebrow. "Would living on the streets be a preferable option?"

"Of course not!"

"Then I suggest you find some way to make the payments." It was a warning. This cruel man was not to be trifled with.

"Please," he'd hate to resort to begging in front of his landlord, not when he just moved here. "I barely make enough as it is; practically everything I've owned was sold in exchange for us living here. My daughter, she- "

"Ah, yes." Mr. Gold smiled, the gesture of it lacking warmth. "Your daughter. Twenty-two years old? Unemployed?"

"Please," Mr. French tried again, his eyes desperate. "I don't want my daughter working, at least not until she's comfortable enough to start." Had it been his way, he didn't want Izzy working at all, not with her...

"All pampered children need to grow up some day, Mr. French." It was a biting remark, yet the truth behind his words were palpable.

"Now, see here- " The florist was starting to become angry that he should regard his Izzy in such a way. She was not, by any means, "pampered."

"You me want to lower your rent?" Mr. Gold challenged, the Scottish brogue of his accent deepening as he braced both of his hands on top of the counter. "Then I'll make you a deal. That is," he mockingly inclined his head, "if you're willing to pay the price." He smirked.

Mr. French didn't like the sound of where this was going, but nodded his consent nonetheless. "Name it, then. What do you want?"

Smirk enlarging, Mr. Gold said, "Your daughter... exactly how good is she with cleaning?"

* * *

Izzy was jarred awake by the sounds of soft knocking against her car window and she blinked open her eyes, her head groggy. Lifting up her head, she her father, patiently waiting for her outside in the rain under his umbrella. She opened the door by a fraction, not wanting to get the seat or herself wet. "What is it?"

Her father, normally cheerful when it came to addressing her, looked guilty and saddened. "I think I may have found you a job..." his voice trailed off.

Izzy blinked again, only this time, in confusement. "What?"

"Here," her father quickly offered his hand, and she took it, allowing him to carefully pull her out of the van as she stood on the wet pavement. She wrapped her burgundy coat tightly around her shivering frame as he held the umbrella above her. "Let's get you inside, wouldn't want you to catch the flu," he placed a comforting hand on her back, "and Mr. Gold would like to speak with you."

It felt even colder inside the shop, much like the man who stood as its king as he waited for her, finely dressed in a black, tailored suit, posture tall and straight, eyes cold and calculating.

In the end, Isabelle- by her own, free will- became the new housekeeper of the notorious Mr. Gold in exchange for her father living rent free. The terms were quite simple- she was to clean for him, cook for him, and last but not least, _live_ with him.

"I'm so sorry." Her father suddenly broke the silence as they drove on home to his (not "their") apartment. "I shouldn't have made that deal with him."

Isabelle didn't look at him as she replied, "I made the choice as well, Papa. The deal is struck."

"Doesn't matter," her father growled through clenched teeth. "It was stupid of me to even think of allowing this to happen. I'll turn right around and- "

"Papa," blue eyes gazed at him sharply. "It's alright. Everything's going to be fine."

No, it wasn't.

"He doesn't know about your condition, Isabelle!" Her father all but yelled, fear for his only, beloved child evident. "What do you think will happen if he pushes you too hard? How do you think he'll react if he came home one day from work, only to find his maid lying dead in the middle of his floor? Did you even consider the possibility that his house might be nothing but a hoard of filth? Full of bacteria and dust?"

Isabelle couldn't stop the silent tears that rolled down her face as she stared at her father hopelessly.

Heaving a heavy sigh, her father stubbornly wiped away at his own watery eyes with the back of his hand. "You're all I have left, darling. Don't make me regret losing you, too."

Placing a comforting hand on his arm, Isabelle smiled, her breath hitching.

All in all- because Izzy had wished it- the deal was still in order, and both agreed that they would swear never to tell Mr. Gold her hidden secret.

This wasn't the kind of lifestyle her father had wanted for her to live with. Then again, he hadn't wanted _any_ of these things to happen to Izzy, but Storybrooke was her best chance at thriving. She didn't need any more excitement. Every single one of her doctors had strongly advised her against it.

Which was exactly why she had compelled both him and his daughter to live in Storybrooke. The atmosphere was quiet, the air clean and unpolluted, and above all, their hospital treatments came highly recommended in all of Maine. Moe had always been fond of the countryside anyway, so living in this sleepy, little town wouldn't be much of a bother to him. No. It would be a bother to Izzy. It was always in her dreams to travel, to pursue a career in journalism and work within different countries world-wide, but...

Not once had she cried to him when he'd announce that they'd be living in a some desolated town at the end of some desolated state in America. Her mother's death had taken the last of her tears, and she would be brave for her father, regardless of her ill-fated condition.

Yes, she still believed in a carpe diem, which is exactly why she had agreed to the atypical stipulations provided by her now new employer, Mr. Gold.

Do the brave thing, and bravery would follow.

**x~X~x**

**Was I the only the one who thought how horribly disgusting it was to watch Rumple kiss a younger Cora like a lover? Two more chapters to go. Brace yourself, people. It's gonna be a bumpy ride. Your reviews would be much appreciated. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Suggested song for this chapter: "Just a Kiss" by Lady Antebellum.**

_**October**_

Her contract terms were simple- clean, cook, organize, and stay out of his business.

Despite her father's continuing fear of "overexerting" herself, Isabelle considered these rules to be- while oddly unusual- highly agreeable. As his new housekeeper sharing his abode, it was her job to make sure that everything that he owned was, and would remain, clean for as long as she lived here. His meals consisted of breakfast and dinner followed by afternoon tea prepared by her during impromptu hours, and she never failed to disappoint yet.

Despite their constant jump from country to country as a small child, Izzy's mother had always stressed the value of keeping things that either belonged or didn't belong to them polished and well-looked after. As a woman highly above her influence, Isabelle had learned fast under her mother's tutelage, the both of them always quick to attain their goals no matter how innocuous the task was. Losing her to cancer at the tender age of eleven nearly broke Izzy apart, the same exact year when she'd also found out that she was diagnosed with...

Shoving the unwanted memories aside, Izzy quickly set to the task of scrubbing down the hallway floors, a clean rag covering over her mouth and nose as she did so. She had her reasons, believe her. Mr. Gold's mansion-of-a-house didn't contain special air fresheners to keep out the extra dust and bacteria like her father's, but she would adjust to it. His house wasn't _that _dusty to begin with, so as long as she kept it clean, then everything would be alright for her.

At least, she hoped.

A quiet click followed by the sound of a turning doorknob jolted Isabelle's head up as she looked at the front door, watching dumbly for a moment as her estranged employer walked inside the house, his cane leading the way as she gently closed the door behind him. As usual, he looked tired and miserable, the same as he always did when he came home eight o'clock on the dot at night.

Oh, shit. Isabelle panicked, looking at the wall clock hanging above his door. It was ten minutes past his dinnertime, and she hadn't even cooked yet!

As if suddenly noticing her presence on his floor, Mr. Gold jerked a step back before he would walk into her. "Oh," he quietly admonished, as if shocked to see her in his house, "good afternoon, Miss French." He inclined his head.

Another odd thing about her employer of two weeks- he was surprisingly civil towards her.

Isabelle looked down at the soapy wooden floorboards. What a sight she must've made- sitting there on his floor, dressed in nothing but shabby jeans and an old t-shirt as she shyly tucked away the loose strands from her ponytail, her face flushing with embarrassment. "Hello, Mr. Gold."

How could she have been so stupid to lose track of time? He probably hadn't even eaten since breakfast. Surely he was starving around this time at night?

Mr. Gold smirked, carefully walking around her so that he could go to the kitchen.

It was the first time in their shared company that he made dinner for the both of them. As they sat there eating in silence, not once did Isabelle hear him rebuke her for missing a cooked meal for him.

This was also the first time that they'd dined together, but he didn't seemed to mind.

It was he who had asked her to join him, anyway.

For the first time in years, he wasn't alone on Halloween.

* * *

_**November**_

Despite what others may have assumed, Isabelle wasn't restricted to always live inside of Mr. Gold's house; her employer making it very clear that she was free to prance around wherever she wished to in Storybrooke so long as she stayed out of trouble and finished her work (the only exception being the weekends).

She had awoken on a cloudy Wednesday morning, the cold air of the temperature chilling her to the bones regardless of the warm flannel pajamas she was wearing. Sliding out of bed, she checked her cell phone. She had one, unread message. From her father, no less.

Opening it up, she read the text: **Doctor's appointment at 1.**

Releasing a tired sigh, Izzy quickly went to get ready for the day.

He was dressed in another one of his finely tailored suits. The red dress shirt along with the grey waistcoat he wore accentuating his body nicely. Draping his black suit jacket over the chair, he bid her a quiet good morning as she cooked over the stove, carefully easing his bottom into his chair. He reached for the newspaper. Izzy gulped, knowing that she needed to ask him now or never.

"Mr. Gold?" She began, carrying a plate full of scrambled eggs and sausage for him. The toast and butter already set out on the table.

"Hm?" His attention was focused on his plate as she placed it before him.

"I... I need to ask you something." Oh, God how hard could this be?

His brown eyes regarded her carefully. "Yes?" He picked up a butter knife, smothering butter all over his toast.

"Well... I'm sorry if this is such a late notice, but I have a doctor's appointment this afternoon. So... would it be okay if I took the rest of the afternoon off?"

The fork full of eggs halted in front of his open mouth, and Mr. Gold glanced at her. "Are you feeling ill?" he questioned, and oddly, his voice sounded slightly concerned for her.

"N-no! Nothing like that." Izzy assured with a wave of her hand and a small smile. "It's just a check-up. Actually, I'll be having monthly ones from here on out."

Although her father strongly advised her against telling him this, she knew that she couldn't lie to her boss about it.

He looked at her like she'd grown a second head. "Monthly check-ups at the hospital?" he intoned curiously.

Isabelle nodded, averting her gaze.

As if suddenly losing his appetite, he placed down his fork. "Well, uh... if they're that important..." he trailed off, not knowing what else to say. So she needed to visit the doctor once a month, nothing to be concerned about.

Or so he wanted to believe.

Taking his response as a yes, Izzy smiled. "Thank you!" Turning around, she headed towards the stove where she kept the kettle boiling. "You're tea is ready."

She reached up into one of the cupboards where he kept all of his tea sets, pulling out a small, original white cup with a weird flower-like symbol on it as she did so. After pouring him a small cup, she added the cream and sugar.

And that's when it happened.

Body going into a tight spasm, she dropped the full cup, her body hunching over the counter as she coughed violently, her chest heaving.

"Miss French?" A warm hand settled atop of her shoulder as she continued to cough rather heavily, her eyes teary. _"Miss French?" _

Izzy turned around, trying to tell him that she was fine, but was cut off by another fit as she covered her mouth with her hand, the tears forming at the rim of her eyes. Acting fast, Mr. Gold quickly handed her a cup of water, his hands tentatively guiding her to take a seat as he limped them over to the table.

A minute later, Isabelle regained her composure, though her face was flushed with a adrenaline and embarrassment. "I-I'm sorry," she wiped her eyes with a napkin, smudging away some of her make-up as she did so. He hadn't a clue as to why she was even apologizing to him. "It... it just happens."

"Are you sure you're not feeling sick?" Her employer asked her again, his eyes full of disguised concern for his housekeeper.

Nodding weakly, Isabelle swallowed a large gulp of water, her throat sore. "As I said before," brilliant blue irises gazed up at him, "it just happens." Looking over her shoulder, she gasped, her expression faltering. "Oh, no."

Before Mr. Gold had even a chance to say anything, she flew out of her seat, picking up the tea-cup like it was fragile porcelain, yet ignored the spilled mess beneath her on the kitchen floor. She glanced up at him, her eyes worried. "It's... it's chipped." She touched the small, damaged rim carefully as she held up the cup for him to see.

Mr. Gold could only look down at her in bewilderment.

"I'm so sorry, but... you... you can hardly see it." Izzy tried to assure, smiling weakly.

Slowly taking a seat back down onto his chair, Mr. Gold rested one arm on top of the table. This girl...

"It's just a cup, dearie. Nothing to be concerned about."

... was different.

He gave her the next day off, assuming she'd want to spend Thanksgiving with her father. It was one of the few American holidays he could do without, wondering exactly why it was that people found joy with over-stuffing themselves on turkey and potatoes.

And so he sat alone is his study, a large book in his hand, sipping tea from his newly chipped cup as he awaited for his little housekeeper to come on home, right where she belonged.

* * *

_**December**_

It didn't snow in Storybrooke like Isabelle imagined it would, but it was cold. Very cold. So cold in fact, that she dressed in double layers of almost everything, not wanting to capture a bad case of pneumonia. If she did, it would be a very bad month for her. A very, bad month.

It was Saturday, her day off, and it was also Christmas Eve. Izzy loved the Christmas season, loved the beautiful ornate decorations people did when the holiday presented itself for the month, though people often times celebrate it for religious reasons. Isabelle wasn't, by any means, religious, having stopped believing in God when He didn't answer her prayers by not saving her mother.

Her Christmas shopping consisted of finding a few gifts for her father. What with the money she earned from working for Mr. Gold, she was thrilled to finally get him a good gift. Not that Izzy hadn't gotten her father presents over the years before. In her opinion, he deserved to be spoiled with expensive gifts.

Which was exactly why she had purchased him a brand new laptop.

And today, she would shop for Mr. Gold.

The man was a mystery even Sherlock Holmes couldn't solve. His temperament switching at random intervals should the situation require him to, and he rarely tolerated people. Isabelle had gotten a good glimpse of it herself, on her first day as his new assistant in his shop when Leroy- obviously drunk- came stumbling in demanding for his axe. Why he would even need one was beyond Izzy's comprehension, but when her stoic employer had denied him his wants, Leroy turned his attention on her, vulgarly labeling her as a "whore" for staying with a monster such as Mr. Gold.

Suddenly, said monster sprung into action, practically choking the bearded man by the throat as he dragged him to the door and flung him out onto the dirty road.

Izzy had never seen him so angry before, her gaze shifting away to her earlier task of cleaning the counter top as he quickly limped back to grab his cane before retreating into the back of his shop, his normally passive face contorted with undiguised rage.

Why he would even defend her honor was beyond her... but it was sweet of him to do so.

She had made several stops to several different stores, but none of them seemed to have what she was looking for. Maybe shopping last minute was a stupid idea, as she would now have to revert to the internet to find him something.

Scanning idly around DeVil's Gift Shop, something immediately caught her eye by the jewelry section, and she smiled.

Mr. Gold patiently awaited for his little housekeeper to return as he stood in front of the window, staring out at nothing in particular as the hour drew close for her to return. He knew he shouldn't have to worry. Isabelle would come back to him. She always did. It brought a strange warmth to his heart every time she willingly did so.

The girl was a complete enigma to him, one that he would thoroughly enjoy solving should she allow him. Frequent, monthly trips to the hospital was way too curious for a physical check-up, and she was always coughing- constantly. Every night he would hear her hacking herself into a tight spasm behind the walls of her bedroom, and it worried him. She claimed that it wasn't a cold, but what else could it be? It frustrated him to no end that she wouldn't tell him what made her suffer this way, and he was tempted to visit her doctor and demanded just what the hell was wrong with his Belle.

_His Belle..._

Admittedly, the only reason why he'd obtained her in the first place was to frazzle her poor father's nerves. Nobody begged from him without expecting to pay the price. The man's rent for the man's daughter. A fair trade, in his humble opinion. And it wasn't like he'd forced them into signing the contract. Isabelle had willingly and proudly sealed away her deal without looking back, and she had kept her word thus far. She would continue to work for him. She would continue to live with him. She wouldn't leave him.

And somehow, it made him feel... happy.

At ten o'clock sharp, la familiar van came into view as it pulled up into his driveway, and Mr. Gold smiled, releasing the curtain to fall back against its partner as he quickly limped out of his room, eager to greet his little housekeeper.

He had made it to the bottom of the steps when she'd open the door, her face shocked at seeing him already there, looking at her. She smiled. "Hey," she closed the door behind her.

"Hey," he softly replied back, his eyes glazing as she took off her winter cap, gloves, and scarf. "Did you have a good time?"

"I did," she fiddled with the buttons of her thick, frock coat, and like a gentleman, he came to help her, his fingers gently pulling at the soft material as she shrugged off her coat. The short, long-sleeved dress and jeans she wore accenting her curves nicely. Hanging up her coat on the racket, he looked at her, his expression gentle.

Gloves in hand, Izzy turned to face him. "Merry Christmas!" she exclaimed, giving him a quick hug, which took him slightly by surprise. She had already wished him a Merry Christmas this morning, and she never, ever hugged him...

"Merry Christmas," he told her dumbly as she released him, and she chuckled, walking into the living room. Like an obedient puppy, he followed.

The chipped cup was presented on the coffee table as Izzy moved to sit on the couch in front of it, moving a seat over as she motioned for him to join her. She had bypassed her fears of chatting with him openly, not that he didn't mind.

Taking a seat next to her, she smiled at him, opening her mouth to say something before she gaped in horror, turning her head away mere seconds before she started coughing. Mr. Gold immediately sprung into action, handing her a glass of water that was already sitting for her on the table.

"Here," he encouraged her to take a sip after the worst of it passed.

"Thank you," she croaked, her voice tight as she wiped away the tears forming at the bottom of her eyes. Pulling out her inhaler, she inhaled deeply, three times. Sighing heavily, she looked at him. "Sorry about that; my asthma's been acting up lately."

He doubted that her asthma was the heart of the problem, but nodded nonetheless. "Do you feel better? Do you want to lie down?"

She shook her head. "No, I'm okay. Thank you though," she averted her eyes shyly, "most people find it hard to tolerate me when I'm in the middle of having a coughing fit."

"Incompetent assholes, the lot of them."

She laughed, her face alighted with mirth. "Well, not all of them. Some just mistakenly assume that it's a cold that makes me feel this way when, in actuality, it's only my asthma." She snuggled into the couch more comfortably. "I can't say that I blame them really."

They sat under the warmth glow of the living room lamp in amiable silence, staring at nothing in particular. Tentatively, Izzy rested her head against his shoulders, feeling him tense beneath her momentarily before he relaxed. Suddenly grinning, she glanced up at him. "Do you normally spend Christmas alone?"

"U-uh," he stuttered, feeling the heat of her body close to him. "Yes. Every year."

She lifted up her head to look at him. "No relatives?" she asked with a frown.

He shook his head. He was alone. No wife, no children. No one.

Izzy was disheartened by this. "That's terrible; no one should have to spend their life alone without someone to love them."

"I'm the only exception, dearie." He smirked, trying to alleviate her sadness.

It didn't work. "You deserve to be happy, Mr. Gold. You're a good man."

His eyes softened. "You really think so?"

He'd taken her away from her father, employed her under the cruelty of his bargain. If anything, she should have hated him for those reasons alone.

"Mmmhmm," Izzy murmured, resting her head against his chest now. "Don't let anyone tell you differently."

Touched by her words, he gave a tenderly smile as he rested his hand around her shoulder her, rubbing her arm in gratitude, and she giggled.

His Christmas gift to her had been the hidden, locked library he kept upstairs across from his study, much to Isabelle's delighted shock as she twirled around like a child lost in Wonderland. From the doorway, Mr. Gold watched, happy that he had managed to give her something worth enjoying. She loved to read, from what he'd been told. And the death hug she gave him was absolutely worth it.

Laughing she pulled away from him, tugging at his hand. "Here, come with me!" she enthused, leading him down back to the living room. "I have something for you, too."

Although deeply moved by her considerate actions, he said, "you really didn't have to get me anything."

"Nonsense!" She smiled, reaching into her coat's pocket. Pulling out a small, red-wrapped box, she handed it to him. With a matching grin, he took the gift from her, delicately pulling the golden ribbon apart before unwrapping the paper. It appeared to be jewelry box. He gave her look that implied "you really shouldn't have done this" but she just smiled all the more brightly, and he resigned with a mock sigh, opening it.

"Oh, Belle..." he breathed, gazing down at the large, smooth gemstone ring inside his hand. "It's wonderful."

"The store clerk said that this stone represents forseeable luck," Izzy explained, taking the little box from him. She gestured towards his right hand. "May I?"

Wordlessly, he stuck out his palm.

Taking his hand in hers, she carefully pulled out the ring and gazed down at his fingers, wondering exactly which one would fit it well. It had taken her nearly twenty minutes to figure out the right size for him at the gift shop, until she'd finally taken an adequate guess.

Hovering the ring near his fingertips, she finally pushed it on his third finger, surprised and glad that it seemed to fit like a perfect charm. Mr. Gold, for the life of him, could not take his eyes off of it.

Releasing his hand, Izzy grinned up at him. "I like it."

_So do I,_ Mr. Gold added in his mind, flipping his palm back and forth as he admired the ring before him before turning his attention back to his blue-eye beauty. "Thank you, Belle."

Izzy smiled, enjoying the gratitude as much as the nickname. "You don't have to thank me," tilting her head up, she lightly pecked him on the cheek. "Goodnight, Mr. Gold, and Merry Christmas."

Retreating up the stairs to her bedroom, she refused to acknowledge the man's gaze as he stared at her, her petite form suddenly disappearing around the bend from his view.

* * *

_**January**_

Isabelle had only one New Year's resolution- to live another year. But even now, it was getting harder to keep.

Even now with that thought in mind she kept silent as her father drove her to the hospital for another one of her monthly arriving, she would immediately be ushered into her typical room, where Dr. Whale would be forced to take test results for bacteria analysis, nutrition deficiencies, lung function, and enzyme levels. Everything about this had to be closely monitored, for if not...

"You seem worried today."

Smiling to herself, Izzy fidgeted with her hands. "I'm not much for hospitals; you know that."

"Neither am I." Her father kept his eyes on the road the entire time. The both of them sharing the same concerns. People with her condition weren't just admitted tot he hospitals unless their situation was very serious.

"You and Mr. Gold seem to be getting a lot closer these days."

Izzy rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "He's my boss, Papa. If I'm going to stay with him, the least I could do is get to know him."

"The man isn't trustworthy, Isabelle." Mr. French narrowed his eyes. "And you could do way better than..._ that."_

Looking at her father, Belle couldn't believe she was getting a lecture. "Oh, Papa, there's absolutely nothing going on between us!" At least... she didn't think it was.

Her father hesitated, a slow breath coming from him. "You know that I have hopes and dreams for you. That you'll live long enough to be loved, that when the time's right, you'll meet someone. Someone who will sweep you off your feet and take you away where you can breathe as easily as you did when you ran through the hay fields." He suddenly frowned. "But heaven forbid it be someone like Mr. Gold."

Izzy laughed, the effort of it making her cough. "Don't worry, Papa. I'm not in the least bit interested in him."

She knew it was a bad lie.

Thirty minutes later found them sitting in the hospital room as Dr. Whale strolled in to greet them. "Hey there, Izzy," he held a manilla folder in his hand, "how are you feeling?"

"A little better," she admitted from her position on the bed, "my lungs are still full, though."

"I know," Dr. Whale replied, standing at the foot of the bed. "You're losing weight again so I'm gonna have to increase your enzyme intake."

Izzy smiled. Same routine as always. Eat more, take lots of enzymes, and adjust to the medication.

"Is it worse than before?" Her father asked, scooting towards the edge of his chair.

"Mmmm..." Dr. Whale opened her file and sorted through several sheets. "It's different this time, because her lungs aren't responding the way I want them to."

Izzy's heart missed a beat.

Her father's was pumping rapidly. "So just increase her medicine. You'll do that, right?"

"I could, but..." with a resigned sigh, Dr. Whale closed the folder. "Here's the thing, Izzy..." he faced her, "your lung tissue is losing elasticity."

Mr. French was doing his best not to panick. "So, what? Does she have to stay in the hospital?"

Isabelle remained calm. She had to.

Well, I can increase her medicine and keep her here for a week if that's what you want. But the problem is," he pursed his lips, "her lungs aren't rebounding well. If the numbers continue to get bad, she'll lose some of her lung capacity permanently. The majority the bacteria won't ever go away. Now it all comes down to this."

Swallowing the hard lump in her throat, Izzy then asked, "Isn't... isn't there anything you can give me to bring them back up to date, like before?"

Sadly, Dr. Whale sighed again. "Given your condition, you'll need a lung transplant in a year or less."

...What? "W-would it help?"

"It would buy you three more years, at best. Maybe four, if you're lucky."

Covering a hand over his mouth, Mr. French looked away.

Her life flashing before her eyes, Isabelle then whispered, "I really don't have a choice, do I?"

"I'm afraid not." Dr. Whale looked down at the floor, then up at her father. "I'd like to run some tests on your father; see if there'd be a positive match. Transplants are so hard to come by with live donors these days, but here's the catch- you'll need two if you want pull this off."

"Wait a second." Her father frowned. "Live donors?"

"It's a serious ordeal, Mr. French." Dr. Whale informed him. "Anyone who donates a lobe would experience a permanent loss in lung function."

"Well, losing a lung is sure as hell a lot more better than losing my daughter in a matter of days!" Mr. French retorted, looking at the good doctor. "Sign me up as a possible candidate; I'll be wanting to see those test results as soon as possible."

Regardless of what would happen, nothing would make Isabelle feel any more happy about this than her father was.

A lung transplant... two live donors... four more years to live...

If anything, she should be thankful. Really, she should.

It was the fact that she would have to tell Mr. Gold sooner or later about this whole ordeal that resolved her to tears.

* * *

Mr. Gold had been in the kitchen chopping vegetables when he heard the front door open. He smiled, knowing that Belle was home safe and sound, and wiping his hands, he grabbed his cane and walked out the door. "Hey, Belle!" he called.

She jumped at his voice as she hung up her coat, her movements slow like a zombie as she slowly turned to face him. At seeing the lost expression on her face, he knew that something was wrong.

"What's wrong?" he asked, coming to stand in front of her, grabbing her elbow. "Are you alright?"

Looking up at him, her lips quivering, Isabelle couldn't hold back the sorrowful temptation any longer.

With tears falling, she wrapped her arms around his neck, releasing a loud sob as she did so. Just hugging him would be enough comfort for now. God knows she needed it.

Dropping his cane, Mr. Gold held her close, soothing her with soft whispers as she clutched the front of his dress shirt, crying her heart out, his hands caressing her back. It pained him to see her like this; it wasn't right of his Belle to feel such pain.

Running his fingers gently through her tresses, he looked up, the door to his home slightly left open. From the darkness outside, he was still able to make out the familiar van belonging to Mr. French parked on the side of his curb, the owner sitting inside the car, his large hands clasped upon his face as he hunched his body over his lap. The man was sobbing as well.

Mr. Gold had never known the true meaning of anger, until now. Something- or someone- was hurting his Belle.

And he vowed to uncover the mystery.

* * *

_**February**_

"What _are_ you doing?"

Izzy smiled, her eyes never glancing away from the reddish curtains from the living room windows. "It's pretty outside today," she tugged again, balancing herself carefully on the ladder as she did so. "The fresh light would do us some good."

He didn't seem to convinced as he watched her, not a foot away from where she stood on the ladder.

Yanking hard, Izzy gasped as she felt her balance give way just a fraction, but uprighted herself quickly. "God!" she breathed with a laugh. "What did you do,_ nail _them down?"

He didn't answer, which somehow concerned her.

Shaking her head with an eye-roll, she tugged again, and again. Harder...

There was a harsh sound of material ripping as Izzy- panicking- fell to the floor beneath her, the torn curtain fisted within her hand as flailed out her arms to embrace impact on the hard surface beneath her.

Instead, she land on something that was both hard and soft as it caught her, and it grunted. Oh, God! She instinctively wrapped her arms around her savior. It was Mr. Gold!

Combined with her weight and his bad leg, he tumbled onto the floor, emitting a loud grunt as he was pinned down by Izzy as he slid to his back, his face contorted as he opened his eyes, his arms beside him.

Face flushing with red embarrassment, Isabelle could do nothing but stare down into the soulless, brown pupils of Mr. Gold, the both of them at a lost for words as they gaped, their minds reeling, their bodies touching the other in the most intimate of ways.

Quickly, Izzy acted fast, carefully pushing herself off of him as she helped him to sit up. "I'm... I'm..." she sputtered out helplessly, brushing off any debris that was on his shoulders and back. "Thank you." She finished lamely.

Trying his best to smile, Mr. Gold waved it away with a gesture. "No matter." He grunted, his eyes clenching shut in pain as he pulled himself to his feet. Izzy was quick to assist him, handing him his cane as she did so.

"I'll..." she gestured wildly around her, looking back and forth between the window and him. "I'll uh... I'll put the curtains back up."

Again, he waved a hand at her. "There's no need." He smiled, hoping to ease her concern. "I'll get used to it."

A week later, Isabelle awoke to the aroma of flowers as she slowly lifted herself off of the bed, a single rose tied with a small, white card to it left on her nightstand.

Curious, she grabbed the rose and held it up to her nose, savoring the fresh, sweet smell of it. Carefully pulling off the card, she began to read.

**_If you'll have it. Enjoy your day off. I look forward to seeing you tonight. _**

**_Happy Valentine's Day,_**

**_R. Gold_**

Smiling to herself, Izzy closed her eyes and inhaled the beautiful scent one more time.

If she didn't know any better, she'd say that she was one step closer to falling in love with her estranged employer.

* * *

"Can I ask you something?"

Mr. French paused in the middle of cutting the long stems of his roses behind the counter, his face holding a mask of uneasiness. "Yes, Mr. Gold?"

Stepping up to the front of the counter, his cane leading the way, Mr. Gold glanced around at the floral shop as he did so. He had to admit, he was mightily impressed at the way Mr. French tidied up his business. In all his years, he had never remembered such a high demand for flowers on Valentine's Day here in Storybrooke. It was, inarguably, remarkable.

"Given your permission," his fingers caressed a small orchid sitting atop the counter. "I'd like to take your daughter out to dinner tonight."

"No." The elderly man had replied firmly, snipping the stems more sharply with his scissors.

Not one to be immediately put off, Mr. Gold tried again. "It's Valentine's Day," he added, his brogue deepening, "and I feel like she deserves something special to remember it by."

"That's not possible." Mr. French hadn't even looked up from his work as he began tying the flowers together with black lace and strings.

Mr. Gold pursed his lips together, fighting to remain calm. "I know you don't trust me," he began quietly, "and I know I haven't given you any reason to. But believe me when I say this- I want to make your daughter happy as long as she stays within my protection and care."

Moe French paused, his eyes blinking as he stared down at his daisies.

"All I ask," Mr. Gold gazed at him with utmost sincere and honesty, "is for a chance to make that happen."

He knew he'd won the battle when he'd taken her out to Tony's that night; it was a wonderful atmosphere, casual dressing, and great food.

Isabelle enjoyed it immensely.

He took her for a long stroll by the docks after dinner; the sounds of ship bells oddly comforting to the both of them.

"You know my family's always talked about moving to America?" she told him, her arm wrapped around his as he escorted her.

"Oh, really?" he asked, smiling. He did that a lot more often around her.

"Mmmm," Izzy replied softly, smiling at the way the water rippled with the wind. "When I was young, it was my mother's dream that I should come to America; study their policies, go from state to state..."

"You could do that now!" he reminded her, the two of them coming up to bench not far from them. "You're young, you're healthy- you could see the whole world if you wanted to."

Her eyes glazed over with sadness for a moment, but she covered it up with a chuckle. "No more travelling for me, thank you. I've done enough of that already when I was a child."

"Did you?" He gave her a crooked, half-smile that she adored all too much.

"Oh, absolutely!" She began telling him of her wild adventures around Europe, of her fleeting memories she had while living in both her mother and father's homelands. That's what kept Isabelle alive and thriving. The memories. The perfect, perfect memories. The good or the bad. They were the reasons she strived to live.

Coming to the end of the docks, the two of them gazed out into the black waters, an invisible breeze gently whipping through them. Inhaling deeply, Izzy sighed. "Sometimes," she leaned against the railing, staring out at the water. "I wish I didn't have this problem, of having these random, asthma attacks. I wish..." she looked down, "I wish that it would all go away."

To be free of this torment, to be free of having to die young.

She felt the presence of a taller body stand behind her as a gentle hand touched her shoulder. Slowly, turning around, she looked up at Mr. Gold, the glaze in his eyes mystifying. "But it's just a wish." she told him quietly.

He smiled down at her, the warmth of his expression churning the inside of Isabelle's stomach pleasantly. "Who says wishes can't come true?"

Lifting a hand, he caressed the side of her face, and as he slowly leaned his head forward, she lifted up hers to receive him, their eyes closing as he touched his lips gently to hers, sharing their first kiss.

It was everything Isabelle had imagined and dreaded as she kissed him back, loving the way how his lips molded together with hers like a perfect mixture, the cool feel of his hand as he tilted her face up for a better angle, deepening the kiss, and she sighed, her hand resting behind his neck, the milkiness of his hair...

And then the magic died away as she pulled her lips from him, sighing.

"Belle..." his whisper called for her attention, the pad of his thumb smoothing against her cheek.

She shoke her head stubbornly. "This isn't right," she said, and whether she was speaking to either him or herself was unknown. "This wasn't suppose to happen."

At his questioning gaze, she raised up her head, her blue eyes shining with unshed tears as she whispered, "I wasn't suppose to fall in love with you."

Swallowing silently, Mr. Gold leaned down and kissed her again, passionately this time, and she responded, her slender arms wrapping around his neck like the lover she would become to him later that night, in the safety of his house, his room, and his embrace. Their bodies entwined together in a sensual dance as he made love to her, their tongues battling as they rolled, her on top, him on top. She had been a virgin up until this night, and she wouldn't trade this clumsy experience for all the world as she quietly screamed into his neck, her arms wrapping tightly around his shoulders, and he groaned, following his release with hers, and then- euphoria.

As he tenderly caressed the side of her face, Mr. Gold smiled, feeling truly content for the first time in his life as he watched his little Belle sleep in his bed, her angelic features serene and beautiful while cascaded under the moonlight.

* * *

_**March**_

Mr. Gold had never known what it truly meant to be in love, until now.

It was the only explanation he could think of that kept his heart pumping for joy for the first time in his forty-eight years as he headed on over to the jewelry store. Purchasing an engagement ring was a skill within itself, but knowing Storybrooke, the gossip would spread like wildfire. Oh, screw it. To hell with what they thought or cared. He was going to make Belle his wife. If they bitched or cried, he wouldn't give a damn.

Money was no object to him, so price wasn't a huge concern as he gazed across the beautiful diamond rings the saleswoman offered to show him, finding it quite hard at deciphering which one would be perfect for his Belle. And then he found it- a gorgeous white, solitaire ring with smaller diamonds embedded along the band.

After picking the right size (thank God that some of the heels at the bottom of Belle's footwear had sizes in them), he made his purchase, the ring tucked securely within his suit jacket's pocket as he headed on over to Mr. French's apartment. The floral shop was only closed on Sundays.

Walking inside the apartment building, he found the right number. Clearing his throat, he straightened his posture, rapped his knuckle's thrice on the hard, white-wooden door, and waited.

Not ten seconds later did Moe French answer his call. "Mr. Gold." He seemed surprised to see his landlord.

"I'm afraid there's something terribly important that I'd like to discuss with you, Mr. French, so if you'd please..." the stoic man gestured inside. "May I come in?"

"Oh, um... of course." Not wanting to be rude, especially to his landlord, the man opened the door and allowed him entrance into the small, living room area. "I apologize, the room's a bit messy. Tea?"

"No, thank you." Mr. Gold replied, shifting his cane nervously back and forth between his hands as he pivoted slowly, refusing to be seated. This was it, now or never. "I..." the ring suddenly felt heavy against him. "Has Isabelle told you anything about the two of us?"

Moe French's face immediately went pale white. "...She's made it obvious about feeling some kind of affection towards you, but only that you were a friend; nothing more."

Mr. Gold gave a nervous chuckle. Of course Belle would try to keep it a secret until the opportunity presented itself. "To be honest, things... things have changed. They've been changing for a while."

"Changing?" Mr. French frowned.

"Yes. You see..." This was the hardest thing he would ever say, but clenching his pride, he continued, "I love your daughter, Mr. French. I'm in love with her. And she loves me."

Crossing his arms, Mr. French paced his living room slowly. "I see... Does Isabelle know that you're talking to me?"

"No." Mr. Gold answered quickly. He needed to be brave. "I went into town today and bought this."

Reaching into his jacket, he pulled out a small, velvet box, opening it to reveal the sparkling ring inside to the florist. "I want to marry her, Mr. French," he admitted seriously, "and I know that the bond between parent and child is sacred, which is exactly why I'm asking you- "

Mr. French raised up a hand, stopping him from saying anything further. "No, Mr. Gold."

His obvious distress halted Mr. Gold from saying anything else. "Why?"

Drawing in a shaky breath, Mr. French looked away as he continued on pacing. "Isabelle swore never to tell you..."

"Tell me what?" he demanded, starting to feel distressful himself. "What's going on?"

Covering his mouth, the florist shook his head sadly, and finally, he stopped pacing. His lips quivered as he spoke. "She's dying."

Mr. Gold took a step back, the horror within his expression obviously pained. "No..." he breathed, his face suddenly contorting with anger. "No, you're lying. How could you even say such a thing?"

"It's true!" His mouth moving rapidly, Mr. French added, "Eleven years ago, we found out that she was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis."

Mr. Gold knew this all had to be just a nightmare. A very, bad nightmare. "She can't be..."

"Every doctor we've visited has given the same advice on how to handle her condition." Mr. French's voice shook as he revealed everything he'd recited for the last eleven years should anyone ask about his daughter's failing health. "And then Storybrooke became highly recommended for her treatment. To be honest, it's a miracle within itself that she's even alive today. It's very easy for her to get sick, and her weakening lungs can only handle so much. Even the smallest of colds could trigger a harmful, respiratory reaction that could kill her."

The solitaire ring seemed to echo loudly as it dropped to the floor.

Mr. Gold couldn't help the violent trembles of his entire being as he relayed this newfound information concerning his Belle, and it scared him. It _scared_ him. And he never got scared. Belle had been cleaning both of his house and shop for the last six months now, and none of them were- by any means- deprived of germs. And he didn't have the necessary equipment to filter out bacterial air. How...? He glared at Mr. French, his teeth clenching in rage.

How could she simply allow herself to be placed into such a situation, knowing that she would make her even more sick should she work for him! How could her own _father_ allow her to...!

In this one, single moment- Mr. Gold hated both himself and Mr. French.

The florist looked helpless as he took a step towards him. "I've tried everything..." His voice cracked.

Mr. Gold's hands were on the old fool's shirt in less than second as he released his cane to shake him. "So keep trying harder!" he bellowed, the fear of losing his one and only beloved taking over his senses. "What does she need? Tell me! What?!" He shook the man harder.

"S-she needs..." the poor disgruntled florist was sweating as the crazed pawnbroker practically raged at him. "She needs a lung transplant. I'm a positive match for one lung, but we need... one more... without a full transplant, she'll only have... one year... to live..."

Releasing him roughly, Mr. Gold took a tumbling step back, his back pressing up against the door as he did so. He couldn't draw a breath, couldn't feel himself standing there. This wasn't happening; he wasn't hearing this. "Oh, Belle..."

Standing up to his full height again, Mr. French looked at him sadly. "We've all known this was coming."

Finally finding his ability to breathe, Mr. Gold turned his head away, his mouth hanging open like a creature starved of water. _This isn't real... Belle isn't going to die!__  
_

"I'm sorry," he whispered, sounding like he was on the verge of crying.

Picking up his cane, he departed without closing the door.

**x~X~x**

**Whew! This chapter was a MOTHER to write. Also, I'd like to make a humble apology about my first chapter note... I was only kidding when I made that remark about seeing Cora kissing Rumple. I mean, I really wished that he hadn't (because well know that Belle is his one and only **_**True Love**_**), but I gotta admit, the exchange between those two was... rather sensual.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Suggested song for this chapter: "Timeless" by The Airborne Toxic Event.**

**WARNING: This chapter contains mature themes towards the end.**

_**Chapter 3**_

Isabelle Gabriella French was in love. Utterly, irrevocably, and undeniably.

Growing up, she remembered a time asking her mother what is was like being married to her Papa; if their feelings for one another were due to the sole basis of having "witter-pattered" emotions deep down in their hearts. With a laugh, her mother had drawn her down to her lap, calmly explaining to her one very, important lesson: Love... was a mystery to be uncovered; it would happen at the most unexpected of places, in the most unexpected ways. To a child, the notion was boring.

As an adult, Isabelle relished within its brightness.

She truly loved Mr. Gold with all her heart and soul, despite her obvious failing health. He made her feel more alive than she'd ever felt, the numbness that her mother's death had left her with slowly slipping away into a faded memory. For that alone, she was grateful. Through his actions, he protected her. Through his love, he completed her.

Yes, this daunting man would always be a strange enigma to her curiosity, but she loved him regardless.

It was doubtful if all of Storybrooke was oblivious to their growing relationship. Wherever she went, Isabelle would catch the faint gossip revolving around her and Mr. Gold's tentative love life, their eyes reluctant to glance the other way when she'd look at them. Some accusing, some disbelieving, and some encouraging.

Like her father and Dr. Whale had promised, the information surrounding her illness continued to be kept a secret. She came here to start her life, not to end it, and having the whole town fawning over her like some small, hopeless child was the last thing she wanted. She was a strong, confident woman who would conquer her trials and race her happiness to the finish line.

After spending most of the afternoon shopping for groceries, Isabelle raced on home. _Their _home. Tonight, she'd make a special dinner for her estranged lover. Tonight, she'd tell him the truth. There was no denying him honesty now. As her both her employer and her lover, he had a right to know. Worries be damned.

She would be expecting Mr. Gold home at eight o' clock sharp like she did every night. The man never failed to arrive here on time to dine with her, no matter how mediocre the meals she prepared for him were. He'd always praised her culinary skills, even though she knew that she wasn't a very good cook. But then again, for a man who knew only the basics that didn't extend beyond preparing eggs and toast, she'd supposed anything that came off of her stove was worth the flavor. But tonight's menu would be special- marinated fried steak, loaded bake potatoes, and a toss salad containing every vegetable imaginable followed by a tire me su and coffee for dessert to end the evening. Izzy was definitely looking forward to it, swallowing down her nerves. She even dressed up for the occasion before sitting there at her side of the table, the candle-lights lit, waiting patiently for her employer to come home. The red wine she'd dug out of his cabinet poured and ready for refills.

It was eight-thirty, and still, he had not come home, but Isabelle wasn't worried about it. A customer had probably met up with him for late-night deal, one that he possibly couldn't refuse. Really, she didn't mind waiting.

By nine-thirty, she was starting to grow concern and the food was getting cold. By ten-thirty, she was grabbing her coat, the candle-lights long extinguished from their small, melted wicks as she closed the door behind her, leaving her romantic set-up and hopes behind.

From down the street she could see the glow of the pawn shop, indicating his presence inside as the cold wind swept away the debris from his door, chilling her to the bone.

Ignoring the closed sign, she slowly opened the door, not even bothering to call out her presence. despite the warmth of the suffocating atmosphere, the man standing in front of the counter radiated off coldness, his shoulders slightly hunched, his cane resting beside him. He was playing with something in his hands, of what Izzy was uncertain as she calmly set down her purse and approached him from behind.

He made no attempt to acknowledge her presence.

"Hey," slender arms slid under his armpits as she hugged him close, her cheek resting between his shoulder blades. Under her touch he tensed, but said nothing. "What are you doing?"

_Why are you still here? Why didn't you come home to me?_

Still, he said not one word to her, his shoulders rolling as he uprighted his posture, until finally... "Do you know I've been swindled a time or two in my life?"

Confused, Izzy frowned, pulling her face away to look at him.

Smirking, Mr. Gold glanced at her over his shoulder, then down at his hands as he fingered the chipped rim of his favorite tea-cup. Her talisman. "Bought this little beauty five years ago in Manchester; the clerk promised me that it was authentically made China." He turned the cup around with his fingers, making sure that she saw the chipped piece that she'd created. "Too bad I was already back home in the states before I even realized the truth. Authentically made my ass." he scoffed.

Isabelle couldn't help but swallow back the lump in her throat as she listened to him talk. Unlike his normal, sarcastic self, he sounded pained, and betrayed. "Maybe he needed to make a sale," she told him quietly, her defense weakly portrayed, "maybe he didn't have a choice in the matter to lie."

Mr. Gold scoffed again, setting the cup aside. His smirk evolving into a sneer as he turned to face her. "He _didn't_ have a choice? Surely you of all people should know, Isabelle. _Everyone_ has a choice to be honest."

Not liking the tone of his voice, Izzy stepped away from him. "Why are you upset?"

"Upset? _Am_ I upset, dearie? Well, my deepest apologies then." He was mocking her as he grabbed his cane, glaring as he did so. "A lie is a terrible thing to waste when it concerns over life-threatening matters such as cystic fibrosis to their lovers."

She watched him as he brushed past her, heading towards one of the trinket shelves. The fear in her eyes evident. "H-how...?"

"I have my resources," he told her without looking back, placing a candelabra onto the fourth shelf.

Isabelle blanched. Her father.

Her original fear escalating, she trailed behind him. "I was going to tell you..."

"When, Isabelle?" He never used her full name before. It was either a 'Miss French' or 'Belle,' the latter being used most of the time after their relationship progressed. "Long after you've slipped into eternal slumber?"

"Of course not!" Now she was starting to become irritated. He had no right to judge her. "But there's always a right time to reveal certain things and- "

"A right time? _A right time? _You've been suffering from an incurable illness for eleven years now and you didn't even bother to tell me?"

"How could I, Rodrick?" She glared at him as he hovered a head taller than her. Screw his pride, she would not back down from him. "You think it's just easy to tell someone about my condition? You think it's easy for me to live with it?"

"Obviously, since you parade day in and day out around my company with a smile on your face."

Isabelle gasped, affronted. "How dare you!" she whispered, her voice deadly as she yelled at him. "I have never- _ever_ acted like my condition wasn't affecting me!"

"Yes, you have!" he retorted, just as angrily. "Not once have you uttered a peep about feeling sick; all these monthly visits to the hospital, the coughing attacks, the way you tire easily while performing the most easiest of tasks... how could anyone not have noticed that something was wrong with you!"

She remained silent, her eyes blurry with unshed tears.

"My house wasn't exactly disinfected of bacteria and germs, and Lord even knows what you dug out from the shelves of my shop." He shook his head, as if all of this had been nothing but a great, big joke. "Cystic fibrosis, Isabelle. _Cystic fibrosis._ Do you have any idea what kind of effect cleaning my house or shop would have had on you!"

It was true. Isabelle's condition was worsening by the day, but she didn't need his pity, and her body could handle so much stress at a time. Fighting like this would escalate it. "Rodrick," she said, more calmly this time, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier. I couldn't..." she swallowed, holding back the tears, "bring myself to do it."

He still glared at her though, his eyebrows notched together with anger. "Give me one good reason why I should ever trust you again."

God only knows what else she was keeping from him.

Isabelle swallowed, the lump in her throat evident as she spoke, "I didn't need anyone's pity, least of all yours. Nor do I want it. I have no reason to be angry at anyone about this. It just happened. Like life, I never saw it coming."

Now the tears were spilling.

Mr. Gold stared at her, the crease in his forehead slightly relaxing. He wanted to comfort her, to hold her in his arms, but could not bring himself to do it. "Then you shouldn't have lied to me."

"I have never lied to you!" she yelled.

"You didn't tell me the truth either!" he yelled back, just as loudly, and he never raised his voice. "What would it have taken to hear the truth from you about all this? What!"

"Nothing! Alright, absolutely nothing." Her eyes were starting to become puffy and she wiped at her tears stubbornly, her throat hitching. "You think I want this?" She gestured wildly. "You think I like feeling hopeless, with nothing in life to prepare for except death? I was doing just fine even after I moved here then _you_ happened and now..." her voice broke as she looked down, biting her bottom lip.

He was crying as well, but silently.

Fisting her hands, she looked up at him, her head held high. "I do not need a reason to be angry."

The memories are what kept her alive. The perfect, perfect memories...

Mouth set in a fierce line, she snatched up her purse and opened the door, slamming it loudly behind her in the process as she left him alone in his shop.

* * *

Forty-eight years of nothing but emptiness. Forty-eight years of working to live, working to be successful, and for what? So that he could screw it all up and become incompetent at understanding a woman's love?

The intimidating image Mr. Gold had solidly built for many years slowly crumbled away as he drove across town, his narrowed eyes glazed with unshed tears.

Life had been nothing but meaningless to him ever since he was a young child, denied of a father and mother's attention and love. Bitterness drove him on to achieve wealth and success. Bitterness towards his father- a coward and drunk- made him want to actually make something of his life instead of wasting it all away for sinful pleasures. And don't even get him started on his own mother.

At one point, he didn't need love- the love of a family, the love of a god, the love of a woman... he'd despised it all, nothing but fake nonsense in his opinion. A sinister way at tricking others into getting what they want. Love was _using _others.

And now that he was in it, he realized that he'd been wrong.

For years, the wall he had build around his cold, black heart had become pierced by Belle's affections for him. She had opened doors in his world he never knew even existed. Through her compassion and kindness, he wanted to have as well. And oh, how he allowed her to show him so, to control him, to allow her to comfort him. For Belle, he would give her the world. For the life of him, he would never understand why she chose to stay.

And he would never,_ ever_ regret falling in love with her.

Yes, Mr. Gold loved her. _He loved her. _More than his own life, more than his own riches, he loved her. Everything about her he adored, down to the last flaw. He was hers in every way but one- as her husband, her life partner.

Stepping out of his car, he slowly took his time walking along the docks, the same place where he had taken her out for their first date on Valentine's Day, where they had shared their first kiss...

Glaring down at the water, he stood. The media made it seem like love wasn't suppose to hurt, that both sides would forever be eternally happy, but how could he be happy, knowing that his love was slowly dying away from him? How would he ever bear to live without her, knowing that she would never come back? No one could stop death. No one, but God.

And now, as he stood gazing out at the frigid water by the rail, Mr. Gold found himself doing the one thing he swore never to do in his entire life.

He prayed.

"Please," he whispered, his voice hoarse as he bowed his head, hair curtaining around his face. With both hands bracing atop of the metal, he spoke, "I'm sorry._ I'm so sorry_. I didn't mean to hurt her like that. I was... I was angry." At her father, but then again, it wasn't Moe's fault. The man had been suffering with this knowledge for more years than he ever had.

"Forgive me, God. Forgive me." Eyes tightly shut, he hunched his shoulders as he shook, and not from the bitter cold either. "I love her... so much that it hurts... Please. Please don't take her away from me. I"m begging You."

But it couldn't be avoided. Belle was dying of cystic fibrosis. Nothing could cure her.

Even though the very knowledge itself would never be undeniable, nothing could deny him from what he really wanted to do since this morning- ask Belle to marry him. To make her his wife, now and forever in both body and spirit.

His tears creating small ripples within the water below, Mr. Gold stared into his distorted reflection. The man he saw... was a stranger. A face so haunted by fear, it scared even him.

Glaring, he stood up straight, his cane tapping loudly across the boards as he hurriedly limped back towards his car. He was not a man of fear, and he especially wasn't a man of cowardice.

Do the brave thing, and bravery would follow.

He had made his resolve.

Belle was his. Death be damned. It could separate them forever by body, but it would not separate them forever by love. He would give Belle her happy ending.

Of course nothing had prepared him for seeing his beloved that night, lying face-first and stone-stiff on the floor of his living room, drowning in her own mucus.

His worst nightmare yet.

* * *

Dr. Whale was an astounding doctor, really. The man practically knew how to handle any severe occasion with certified ease and integrity, including Belle's current condition.

He had been a little more than surprised to see Mr. Gold, a man who could give a damn about anyone, carrying one of his unconscious patients in his arms as he frantically flung through the hospital doors, scaring more than half of the staff, visitors, and other patients. How he had managed to even carry someone inside with his bad leg said something for his strength and will. And for once in his life, Dr. Whale was charged with hearing the most hated man in all of Storybrooke do the one phenomenon he never thought would happen.

Mr. Gold begged him.

"Please, help her!" The frantic pawnbroker wailed, his forehead creased with sweat. "Save her! Damn it, hurry!"

Knowing what was wrong immediately, Dr. Whale took the unconscious woman in his arms and quickly headed towards the necessitating equipment room, a few of his staff members following closely behind him.

* * *

Belle was alive. Thank God. For once, Mr. Gold amused during this dreadful hour as he sat beside her, holding her limp hand in his own as she slumbered deeply within her hospital bed, he could finally have a reason for showing any type of gratitude to Him.

In all his life, he had never felt so terrible than he did now. Although Dr. Whale had assured him that Belle's was currently in stabled condition (all thanks to his professional intelligence), an unhealthy amount of anxiety had caused her to have a malignant asthma attack. Add on her cystic fibrosis, the mucus would've clogged up her lungs if she didn't recuperate properly, which would have suffocated her until she died. And even worse, she would be needing that transplant sooner. She didn't have a year now. She had a month.

But everything was fine... for now, that is.

A soft knock to the door brought up his attention, and he turned his head, watching as the solemn form of Mr. French opened and stepped through the door of Belle's hospital room. His face grim.

But he put on a smile for Gold nonetheless. His daughter was still alive. A blessing within itself. "How's she doing?" he asked softly, standing next to him.

Looking down at his beloved, Mr. Gold smiled. "She's carrying through."

Nodding twice, the florist joked, "she's always been known for giving people the most unhealthiest of scares. Come talk to me sometime about her childhood; you'll see what I mean."

Mr. Gold breathed out a chuckle, smoothing the pad of his thumb across the back of Belle's had as he did so. "I would like to."

Chuckling himself, Moe glanced away, his face deep in consideration. Inhaling deeply, he pulled out his hand from his pocket. "Here," he said to Gold, "you left this in my apartment."

It was the engagement ring he had purchased for Belle earlier yesterday.

Taking it from the taller man, he nodded his head in gratitude, his tired eyes gazing down at the jewel forlornly.

Pivoting on one foot to the other, Mr. French shoved both hands into his pockets. "I'm sorry you had to find out this way."

Clenching the ring tightly within his fist, Mr. Gold found himself sympathizing with him. "She told me that she doesn't need a reason to be angry."

What she did need was love.

"Of course she doesn't." the bitterness crept inside the florist's throat without him evening noticing. "Izzy doesn't need a wedding. She needs a lung transplant. Otherwise..." he closed his mouth, the alternative too painful to say.

Mr. Gold didn't blame him for keeping quiet about it. The very thought of his Belle leaving him forever scaring him to death. But it was unavoidable.

And then a thought came to mind. "Mr. French..." he waited until the man had opened his eyes, until he could see for himself whether Belle was as bad off as he'd said. "Isabelle won't live another month without a lung transplant. Is that right?"

"Yes, Mr. Gold. We've talked about giving her one, but I'm afraid it's futile." A catch sounded in his voice. "She's on a donor list; that's all we can do."

He grabbed the thin string of hope and clung on like his life depended on it. "Alright." He studied Mr. French's face. "Let's give her a lung transplant."

The man sadly shook his head. "She's on the waiting list; they can do a live transplant with two living donors. I'm a match, but..." he exhaled shakily, shaking his head. "Without a second donor..."

"I'll give her one of mine." Mr. Gold's heart pounded with hope.

The florist was stunned into disbelieving silence as he gaped at the stoic man sitting in the chair beside his daughter. "Mr. Gold..."

"I'll get tested, see if I'm clean. Then she can get better."

"Mr. Gold," Mr. French tried again, sucking in a breath as he prepared to reveal yet another painful truth. "A new lung will only buy her three years at best. _Three years." _

Three years? Mr. Gold closed his mouth shut. It wasn't long enough. He wanted Belle forever and ever, but even everyone was denied in having what they wanted most for all of eternity.

But three years _was _an eternity if it meant keeping Belle alive.

"Mr. French- " his tone was calmer now, marked with steely determination- "Think of it this way... on the back of a bull, a rider only has eight seconds to stay on if he wants to win. On the back of a bull, eight seconds feels like a lifetime." His eyes darkened. "And three years? That's a thousand tomorrows for me to love her. You do the math."

Mr. French could call Mr. Gold a wide variety of names, the majority of them being mostly unpleasant. Not one single soul in all of Storybrooke had anything remotely amiable to say about this man, who used fear and cruelty as a means to keep people in line while conducting business with him.

But Mr. French couldn't deny one thing. This "cruel" man loved his daughter. So much in fact, that he was willing to give out his own lung to buy her more time on God's green earth. To him, there was no greater sacrifice.

Looking down at the ring in his hand, Mr. Gold clenched it again. "So what say you, Mr. French?" Brown eyes glanced at the florist. "Do I have your blessing?"

He didn't even need to ask.

* * *

She awoke to the faint sound of beeping, the noise of it magnifying bit by bit as she slowly began to regained her senses.

Neck feeling heavy, she maneuvered her eyes back and forth, catching glimpse of white walls and hospital appliances. And then she saw _him. _

Despite sleeping into a sitting position on the chair beside her, he looked absolutely peaceful, his head bent like he was saying a silent prayer, cane held tightly beneath his hands. From her free ear, she could hear him softly snoring, and she smiled.

"You know," she croaked, her throat scratchy as she addressed him. "I'm sure sleeping in your bed is so much more comfortable than this one."

Jerking himself awake, Mr. Gold looked at her, his eyes wide and groggy. "Belle." He breathed, as if seeing her for the very first time after many years.

"Hey," she returned, just as quietly.

Standing up, he leaned down, gently kissing her forehead, his soft lips lingering against her skin. "How are you feeling?" He asked after pulling away.

She felt... dead. "Weak," she admitted lamely, not at all feeling her muscles responding to her will to sit up.

Mr. Gold nodded, averting her gaze as he slowly lowered himself back down into his chair. "What do you remember?"

"Hmmm...," she thought long and hard. "I remember coming home, angry, afraid, and irritated. So to get my mind off of... well, you know." She blushed. "I started to clean, just whatever I could reach. I was dusting your furniture when the... attack happened and I didn't have my inhaler. Afterwards, I blacked out."

He inhaled a sharp, intake of breath. She was _dusting_ his furniture while emotionally unstable? That would've killed her with her kind of condition! _"Never_- " he grabbed her hand, his eyes serious, " -do that again. Do you understand? You have- "

"Cystic fibrosis, I know." Izzy finished fo him firmly. "You don't need to remind me."

"Of course I do," he replied, amusement taking over his rebuke. "What kind of person would I be if I didn't worry over you?"

Smiling softly, she looked away. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"You did more than scare me," he admitted, his eyes softening, "for one, frightening moment, I'd thought you'd..." he swallowed, "please don't ever do that again. I'm serious."

Izzy hung her head in shame. "I'm sorry."

_"I'm_ the one who should be sorry, dearie." She flicked her head up. He smiled shyly. "I should never have let my temper get the best of me. You were afraid to tell me the truth, and you had your reasons, but I was... I didn't... I didn't know what to do after your father told me that you were sick. And so I hid my fears behind my sorrow. I don't want to lose you, Belle. Not now, not ever."

She was stunned, speechless. Her biggest fear for weeks had been that he would reject her love if he'd ever find out about her illness. It would be understandable if he did, the cost of it being a broken heart. _Her_ broken heart. Now that she really thought about, she wouldn't know what to do if he denied her his love. Added on the stress and hurt, it probably would kill her. It almost did.

Scooting himself closer, he rested his head on top of her chest, listening to her heartbeat. "Do you have any idea... how much I love you?"

Never once had he said those words to her. Those three, little syllables that could brighten even the most darkest of days and lift the heaviest of hearts. "I kinda figured after you brought me here, limping and begging," she teased, finally able to feel her fingers as she stroked his hair. "You saved my life."

He chuckled, happy that she seemed to think so. "Not just yet, but I'm about to." At her inquisitive gaze, he raised his head, the ends of his eyes crinkling. "I'm a match! As soon as you're ready, I'll give you one of my lungs after I'm tested. And maybe years after that they'll find a cure for CF and- "

"You can't." There was no emotion in her voice as she shook her head, and his excitement faltered. "I won't let you. You need both of your lungs. Don't give one up just for my sake."

"I'm not doing it for your sake, I'm doing it for _my_ sake." She gaped in distress at him, and he smiled like a kid on Christmas morning. "A different set of healthy lungs would buy you a few more years, Belle. Do you have any idea how happy that makes me feel compared to the alternative? Do you have any idea how horrible I would've felt if you were to die tonight, without even giving me the proper chance to say goodbye, or to tell you how undeniably in love I am with you?"

She stared at him, her breath catching.

Taking her hand, Mr. Gold continued, "I don't care if you're sick, or how many years you'll get from this lung transplant." He traced the side of her face with his fingers. "I love you. And guess what?" His voice became playful. "I found out that I can't live without you, and alright, I admit that I sometimes am an unbearable ass."

She laughed, her eyes holding the familiar adoration she hadn't allowed herself to feel since before that dreadful night. Gently running her fingers through his hair, she asked, "What am I going to do without you, Rodrick?"

He reached into his closed palm and lifted the ring for her to see. "Marry me, darling."

Her mouth hung open for a moment, but her surprise gave way to a certainty that told him all was right with their world. She wasn't going to run or push him away. It was too late. Nothing would've prevented them from falling for one another. His sudden question was proof enough.

Taking her silence as a good thing, he smiled. "Is that a 'yes'?"

With tears forming in her eyes, she nodded with a watery grin, and he slid the ring past her knuckle before leaning in, her lips meeting him half-way as they shared a tender kiss, one of many that would seal their fate forever.

At the sound of the door opening, they pulled away, watching as Moe French and a few other friends Izzy had managed to make poked their heads through the doorway. Every single one of them smiling. "So... did she say 'yes'?"

* * *

Isabelle was promised a spring wedding the sooner she got out of surgery alive and well. To her, there was no greater season, the promise of new life. And in a matter of weeks, she would be starting one.

The surgery was scheduled a week after their engagement; had it been Mr. Gold's way he would've thrown in both himself, Belle, and her father the day after, but Dr. Whale strongly advised against it. Needless to say, Belle was thankful that she would have to wait, much to her sulking fiance's irritation.

"Well need to do a blood test first to see if you're clean," Dr. Whale told him, three days before the surgery. "Just to be cautious; if there's any chance you do in fact carry the CF gene, then donating your lung probably isn't the best alternative."

In the end, Mr. Gold was a clean slate.

"I'm glad," Izzy was relieved, holding his hand as he stroked hers.

"As am I," he agreed, leaning in to kiss her. The sooner this mess was over, the better.

The surgery seemed to go on forever; it was forever. By now, everyone in Storybrooke had heard of the news, and awaited with abated breath to see if the three of them would come out stabled and well. Had it not been for Isabelle, they wouldn't give a rat's ass if Mr. Gold was the only one who went in for serious surgery. Lucky enough, he had earned some of their good favors just because he loved and was willing to help Izzy. Nothing more.

When it was finally over, the three of them were rushed out of the OR to recover, but Isabelle was the one who needed the most attention. Which is exactly why she she'd been transported into another room where Dr. Whale could watch over her.

"I can't believe it's over," Mr. French said in a weak voice, smiling contentedly as he lay in his hospital bed, mounted with blankets.

Mr. Gold could only manage a nod, too weak to speak. Exactly what the hell was in that anesthesia? "Is... " he inhaled deeply through his noise, closing his eyes as the IV pressed against his skin. "Is Belle going to be alright?"

They made an odd image- two men who at first seemed to hate each other- wearing hospital gowns as they shared the same room, too weak to move, too weak to think of anything really. And yet here they were, chatting as if they were old friends reunited after a long separation.

"She'll pull through," Moe replied, his voice strong and sure. "My girl has made it through far worse things than this."

That seemed to peak Mr. Gold's interest. "How so?"

"Has she ever told you about her mother?"

Now that he thought about it, Belle had never actually told him what happened to her mother. His guess had been that she'd passed away, but avoided asking her the question for fear of elevating old scar wounds.

Smiling sadly, Mr. French looked down at his left hand, gazing at his wedding band. "I couldn't get her to open up with me like she used to after the cancer took away my wife; Lucinda had been everything to our little girl. It was the worst year of our lives after she'd died, the second being when it was confirmed that Isabelle was... infected."

Mr. Gold stared at the man, the expression on his face unreadable. "Your family has been through a lot."

Nodding, the florist looked at the window, his eyes dreamy. "I'd do anything to keep my baby girl close as possible, but life happened to have other plans for her. Great plans." Glancing back at the dealmaker, he grinned. "And you instigated them."

Mr. Gold never truly understood the bonds of family and trust, until now.

"Keep her safe," Mr. French implored softly. "Keep her feeling loved. She'll need it."

It was a promise he intended to keep for the rest of his life.

* * *

Isabelle didn't a large wedding. She wasn't much for extravagant celebrations anyway, no matter how much Ruby Lucas badgered her into having one. As long as she and Mr. Gold get to spend the rest of their lives together, she would be happy.

As hopeful and encouraging as Dr. Whale was, it was only sensible that he be allowed to keep Izzy monitored at all times, for safety reasons, of course. "We'll want to keep a steady progress on how well your new lungs will function," he told her on her last day at the hospital, her father pushing her in the wheelchair as Mr. Gold limped beside her. "And private home care is highly recommended."

Mr. Gold didn't care how much the expenses would cost him. He'd pay for it all. As long as it meant keeping his Belle alive and healthy for as long as possible, he'd empty out his bank account.

The ceremony was held on a beautiful spring morning at the Town Hall. It wasn't that Mr. Gold hated God or any other religions, but churches, for some odd, reason, irritated the crap out of him, and don't even get him started on nuns...

So with a pleasant smile, Belle had agreed that they could be married anywhere else- as long as it was within range of friends and in Storybrooke. Once again, had it been his way, the only guests being allowed to witness their happy nuptials would've been her father and the Justice of Peace.

Every single section was filled from beginning to end as Mr. Gold stood there on the stage, looking quite handsome and regal in his black suit and red cravat, chin shaven, his long hair washed and brushed. His cane resting underneath his palms.

Although he didn't dare show it, he was an absolute nervous wreck on the inside. What if he messed this up? What if Belle- God forbid- decided that being married wasn't good enough for her? Now he was just being silly. There was no way in hell that Belle would call of the wedding. She'd made it this far from day one after his proposal, and she wouldn't go back from him now.

They loved each other too much to allow that to happen.

The doors to the court room opened and in stepped his long-awaited bride, her arm linked around her father's as he slowly escorted her down the aisle. Every head turned to stare, their eyes simply entranced by her beauty, but Mr. Gold had been the most affected one of them all as he stared, his jaw trembling.

She was so... beautiful.

The dress was a full-length, layered satin covered with delicate lace-cap sleeves that fell an inch off her shoulders. She didn't care how rich her fiancé (soon-to-be husband) claimed to be. She would not spend a ridiculous amount of money on a dress she'd only wear once in her life while using a credit card under his name. She wouldn't do it. Honestly, the sales they make these days. But this dress... this dress was_ perfect _for her wedding day.

Smiling through her veil, she slowly walked up the stairs on the opposite end of the stage, clutching her father tightly as she came to stand close right in front of her lover. She didn't have to ask him what he thought of her dress or of how she looked that day. It was written across his face, spilling over from his heart. However long she had left, she would never again look at Rodrick without seeing his eyes the way they shone as she came to him.

Releasing his daughter's arm, Moe French face his soon-to-be son-in-law, smirking as he shook the man's hand before handing his girl's own ones to his as he took the cane away and held it. Stepping aside, he waited for it to begin, hardly daring to believe what he was seeing. His baby angel was getting married. _Married. _To the man that she loved most above all others. It was a dream come true for everyone.

Fingers grabbing on to hers gently, Mr. Gold down smiled at her, the Justice of Peace coming to stand in front of them. "Love is kind," he began, his deep voice echoing around the walls, "love is patient. Love always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres." He paused long enough to glance at them both. "Love never fails."

It was time for the vows. They'd each written something special and unique, and then together they'd written the last part.

Staring into his beauty's eyes, Mr. Gold went first.

"I take you, Isabelle Gabriella French, as my wife." He drew a breath and steadied himself. "If I have ten years with you, or a hundred, our time together would never be enough. With you, I'm something I've never been before." He paused. "I'm whole because of you complete me. My love for you means I'm no longer sure where I end and you begin." He ran his thumbs along the top of her hands, his tone steady even as his eyes filled. This was the part they'd written together. "And I promise you, with everything I am, with everything I have, as many days as we share together. No matter what tomorrow brings, I will be here. I will stand by you and stay by you. I will be strong when you cannot be strong, and I will hold you up when you cannot stand. My love, my life, is yours, Isabelle, from this day on."

He slid the delicate ring onto her finger and covered her hands with his.

Izzy hesitated, his words still washing over her. Swallowing down the lump in her throat, she found her voice. "I take you, Rodrick Adrian Gold, as my husband." Everything faded but the man before her. "I was not looking for love, but you brought it. You opened my heart to feelings I've never thought possible. And though you deny it, you've shown me that love isn't measured by years or decades, but by smiles and dreams." Trying to reign in her tears, she continued. "No matter how many tomorrows I live, I will be here. I will guard your dreams and stay by you in spirit. I will be your strength for you when you cannot find it. My love, my life, is yours, Rodrick, from this day on."

She slipped a gold band onto his third finger, neither of them breaking eye contact.

Smiling widely, the Justice of Peace crowed, "It is my pleasure to pronounce you husband and wife. You may now kiss your bride." he told the groom.

And kiss her he did.

Isabelle could feel his passion mixed with delicate tenderness as he molded his lips with hers, her arms encircling around his neck as he rested his hands behind her, holding her close. Their reward was an encore.

Apparently there was a fellowship hall next door, which is exactly where the reception took place. Isabelle was pretty sure that Ruby had something to do with it, since she'd promised the waitress that she could "toy around" with the idea of having a small dinner after the wedding ceremony. It was, by no means, small at all. But it was beautiful.

The theme for the hall was roses, and judging by how carefully and intricately everything had been set up, it was only right to assume that everyone who could had contributed their time into making their wedding special. Bless their hearts. And the food... there was so many dishes to chose from! At the end of the buffet line erected a huge, homemade wedding cake the color of ivory with red, frosting roses, and the gifts...

Her husband was just as speechless as she was, and she squeezed his hand, laughing as the crowd made way as they headed towards their table.

It was perfect.

"Any special plans for the honeymoon?" Mary Margaret asked as she hugged the bride, their husbands shaking hands.

Izzy smiled. Although the thought of a glamorous getaway in Europe would've been nice, she didn't have the heart to vacation anywhere but here- with her beloved. "No more traveling for me. Being married enough is quite the adventure."

"And it only gets better!" David Nolan sang in, reaching for his wife's hand as he pulled her to the dance floor, leaving Belle and her husband behind as he wrapped an arm around her.

"So...?" Ruby suddenly sang in mischievously as she sidled up next to Belle. "Did I pull through?"

Shaking her head, Belle laughed. "Yes," she admitted, her husband smirking down at her. "You pulled through."

Laughing herself, Ruby hugged her friend tightly. "Oh, I'm so happy for you! For the both of you!" Pulling back, she glanced between her and Mr. Gold. "So when shall we be expecting a baby shower?"

The pawnbroker had been sipping tasty punch when the question caught him off guard, causing him to choke before trying to regain his steely composure. Izzy patted his arm in comfort. That would not feel good for his throat at all. "We'll let you know as soon as possible."

* * *

It was weird to finally call it _their_ threshold now. It had been Izzy's home just as much as his for many months, but not as a man and wife, leaving a new tingling sensation within her stomach as she thought about it. This was legally _her _home now. As his queen, it was hers to deal with.

Stepping inside as her husband opened the door for her, Izzy gazed around at the area just like how she remembered it, ordinary and slightly cleaned. Her father had explained the importance of having air refreshers to filter out the unneccessary bacteria and funk for Izzy's sake, and her husband promised to see to it right away. There'd be no more breathing accidents as long as he'd take care of her.

Turning around, she slid the palm of her hands across his chest. "We're home," she whispered, not fully believing that this was true. That this beautiful, tragic man before her had somehow managed to give her, her happy ending.

Fingers sliding against the sides of her face, Rodrick leaned his head closer to her. "We're home," he agreed, his lips find her forehead sensuously, and Izzy closed her eyes, relishing every bit of love he had to offer her.

Taking her hand in his, they slowly ascended the stair case together.

Walking into his bedroom- their bedroom now- she took her place at the center, her hands already making way to unclasp the veil upon her crown. But gentle, larger fingers beat her to it.

"Let me," her husband softly implored, carefully undoing the beautiful material as she patiently stood in front of him, watching his as he worked.

Setting aside the veil on the nightstand, he turned to face her, his expression nervous, excited, and a little- and she found this endearing- shy. "This will be different."

He was referring to their first time together, and she blushed. "Yes. Yes, it will be."

Dropping his cane, he quickly caught her hands in his, his eyes promising everything he left unspoken. "I won't hurt you."

The tears came back with a vengeance as Isabelle reached up a hand, caressing his face, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. His eyes closing at the shivering warmth her touch gave him. "I know you won't. My husband," reaching up, she gently pressed her lips against his chin, "my life," a chastise kiss to his nose, "my love."

Tenderly grabbing his face with both hands, she kissed him where it counted, and he responded, just as fiercely.

Pulling back, she eyed him for a moment and then abruptly pounced on him, pushing him back on the bed. He gave a startled laugh and pulled her close to him. "In case you haven't noticed, since I'm already married to you, you don't need to worry about scaring me off. But I don't like knowing what you want. I'm afraid you'll wake up one day and realize you're unhappy with everything we've done."

He drew her face to his and kissed her deeply. "I won't be unhappy."

"I still want you to trust me enough to tell me what you want."

"I _do_ tell you what I want. I want you, and all the rest is details."

Belle smiled. "You do know that Ruby was only kidding, right? About the baby shower?"

Actually no, he didn't. "Of course she was."

The thought about starting a family with Belle hadn't once crossed his mind, but he had to admit, it did bring a sense of enjoyable appeal.

"So..." she drawled out the word lazily, smoothing her palms across his pectorals. "Do you want children?"

He thought long and hard about it for a moment. "Didn't Dr. Whale advise us from trying to... " his voice dropped.

"He did," Isabelle confirmed without letting him finish, "However, he also said that it was _our_ choice."

"Would it make your condition worse?"

She hesitated to reply, and then, "I want to give you something to remember me by." And having a child created out of the truest form of love was definitely one of the greatest gifts she could give him.

"...Only if you do, then."

She rolled her eyes, straddling him. "I didn't ask if we should have them; I asked if you _wanted_ them, regardless of my opinion."

He stared up at her, his expression neutral, and then, "Yes... I think I do, but I'm okay with it if you don't," he added.

"Rodrick," blue eyes narrowed playfully, "why would I ask such a question if I wasn't okay with it?"

Her husband opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, "you'd be a wonderful mother," he finally blurted, his voice thick. In actuality, he didn't want to tell her the truth, of how he was so scared of losing her quickly should anything happen if she were to fall pregnant. But he meant what he said. Isabelle could tell just by the look in his loving eyes.

"Thank you," she said firmly. "It's funny, you know- when I first met you, I thought you were used to demanding whatever you wanted, but you're quite the opposite. You're very good at giving, but you don't know how to take."

"On the contrary, I'm fairly good at taking," he slid his hands up her legs to cup her thighs suggestively.

"No, you're not. But you're going to learn."

He laughed at her determination. "And how do you plan to teach me?"

She caught his hands and moved them to his sides. "You are just going to lie there like the good gentleman you are and let_ me _have my way with _you_. No touching, no nothing. Got it?"

"Not fair."

Her face softened. "I know. But I want to do this for you."

Can I return the favor afterwards?"

Pressing him down firmly, she leaned over his face, her smile lopsided. "Are you going to let me have my wicked way with you, or not?"

He returned the smirk. "As long as I get to have my revenge in the end."

"Nope!" Opening his suit jacket, she pushed it off his shoulders, and he sat up briefly to assist her, the thick material tumbling to the floor. Then she began to unbutton the front of his shirt, her warm tongue following the trail behind her fingers. "This is_ my _gift to you."

Once she finished with the buttons, she took her time tantalizing him, first with her fingers, then with the delicate touch of her mouth. She could feel his tension rising as she approached his belt buckle, and she raised her head to give him a mischievous smile while she disposed of the obstacle. "Are you enjoying yourself yet?" she asked archly, letting her hands pause in their exploration of him.

The minx...!

"You _are_ trying to torment me."

"That's right." She felt his hand at her breast, caressing her nipple through her dress. Despite the burst of pleasure it sent through her, she pushed it away. "Behave yourself. You can look, but don't touch."

With a devilish smile, she pushed herself off of him, her hands immediately pulling off the silk dress as she dropped it to floor. He gazed at her hungrily.

Immediately she found her place atop him again, giving a low laugh when his hips thrust up involuntarily. "Hmm, I guess you are enjoying yourself." she teased, sliding her hands to scope out for a more intimate exploration of him.

He groaned, and she asked in low voice, "What do you want, Rodrick?"

"I want to touch you." he grounded out.

"No. Tell me what you want _me_ to do to _you."_

_"Belle."_ His voice was full of deep frustration.

"Or do I have to guess?" She shifted so that her mouth was poised just above him. Where she'd gained the bravado of a sexual deviant compared to her normally shy attributes was beyond his comprehension. "Could this be it?" She waited for an answer.

"You little beast," he gasped. "You know it is."

She gave him a satisfied look as she began to give him what he wanted, making him moan with pleasure. He reached out for her, but she determinedly pushed his hands away, taking him closer and closer to the edge of pleasure.

"For God's sake, let me touch you!" he pleaded.

She decided to take mercy on him and released him. Poising herself over him, she slid herself home, answered by a convulsive thrust as she gasped. "There," she breathed mischievously, as he struggled to control himself. "You're touching me. _Now_ what do you want?"

He caught her hips, his eyes nearly wild, pulling her to him again. Then, apparently needing more, he surprised her by flipping them over so that he was on top of her, but he was careful.

Kissing her fiercely, he pressed her shoulders back until she lay flat, where he could explore her body at will. His mouth at her breast and his hand between her legs, he built the tension in her to the breaking point as she arched and moaned and then he murmured something incomprehensible in her ear as he brought her back with powerful surges of pleasure as they made love with a fierce passion.

At this moment, there was no illness, there was no problems. Nothing existed in their dark worlds of despair. Nothing but this happiness. The immeasurable happiness that they found within each other as he slowly rocked against his wife, his eyes clouded with pleasure as they reflected within her own blue irises, the both of them gasping silently and she held him close, his muscles shuddering as he muffled a cry beside her ear.

Rodrick was right. A few years was a thousand tomorrows.

An eternity for the both of them.

* * *

_**August**_

At eight o'clock sharp he walked through the door, his façade appearing tired but he was glad to be home. Collecting rent along with the priority of keeping his shop organized was a challenging task believe it or not.

Taking off his coat, he could hear his beloved fiddling around in the kitchen as she prepared their dinner. He smiled, making an entrance. "Hey."

She glanced at him over her shoulder, the green apron she wore hugging her curves nicely. She grinned. "Hey."

Dropping his keys onto the kitchen table, he noticed something sitting there that he was sure he hadn't seen this morning while eating breakfast.

A pacifier. A pink pacifier.

Raising an eyebrow, he looked at her, and she shrugged, but was smiling all the more. "How was work?"

Belle wouldn't have to worry about living as his maid anymore. It was an agreement she could well live with due to her condition. Plus, he made enough money to provide for the both of them for the rest of their lives. He'd bring home the bacon, and she'd raise up the herd.

"Tedious, as usual." Sliding his hands around her, he pressed a lingering kiss to her neck, and she rested back against him, closing her eyes as his nose lightly skimmed around the shell of her ear. "Oooh," he peered over her shoulder inside the pot, wondering exactly what it was that she was making. "Pasta?"

Nodding, she said, "it's a surprise. Could you please get me the measuring cup?"

Kissing her cheek, he did as she asked, reaching for the cabinet that held all of her measuring instruments for cooking. Opening the door, he narrowed his eyes, blinking. "What the hell?" he murmured.

Baby bottles containing every color of the rainbow littered the front of bottom shelf, followed by two containers of mixture formula.

Looking over to his wife, he caught an ethereal gleam in her eyes as she waited for him to voice out his question. "Did you babysit today while I was gone?" he asked, handing her the cup she'd been needing.

He didn't know anyone in Storybrooke who had children young enough to be nurturing toddlers. But then again, he hardly paid attention to anyone else's life that didn't involve his or Belle's.

Shaking her head (Was that an exasperated gesture?) she asked, "could you please get me the cookbook?" She turned away from him.

Once again, he nodded, the evening strange enough as it was. Okay, so apparently Belle babysat a child for a friend she knew and she didn't tell him. Big deal.

Grabbing the cookbook she indicated from the kitchen book shelf, she then asked him, "find me page two-hundred and thirty-six."

Doing as she'd asked, he flipped through the pages, opening to the one she needed, stepping back as something slipped out of it; a small piece of paper. Sighing irritably, he knelt down carefully to retrieve it. Belle was not very good at marking the pages she wanted to keep. Why not just ask him for a book marker?

"What does the card say?"

Standing up he flipped it over, his mouth opening as he prepared to read what it said, then paused, gaping as the cookbook slipped through his fingers as he stared down at the two words that managed to spin his whole world in seconds, the script elegantly written by Belle's hand.

_**I'm pregnant.**_

Turning around, Belle faced him, her arms crossing in that "well, it's about time" manner as she raised an eyebrow. "Figured the first two hints still wouldn't be enough; anything that isn't subtle gets lost by you." She barked out a small laugh, her throat cracking as the emotions got the best of her. "Congratulations, Mr. Gold." She grinned widely at his stunned expression. "You have two-hundred and thirty-six days until I give birth to your baby. Surprise!"

**x~X~x**

**I lied. This isn't the last chapter. Now you only have one more to go. So how was it? **


	4. Chapter 4

**Suggested song for this chapter: "Don't Let Go" by Bryan Adams ft. Sarah McLachlan. **

**Thank you to all who reviewed.**

_**Chapter 4**_

Mary Margaret was always available during the summer to babysit, never once asking for payment. She willingly volunteered to do the job, and for that alone, he was grateful. But it wouldn't hurt her to accept a little bit of money from him every now and then. However, their rent payments have mysteriously dropped a little lower these last two years...

It had nothing to do with not wanting to watch Lacey while Mr. Gold worked away in his shop; what with his age and leg getting worse by the month, he couldn't afford to keep a two-year old entertained every second all day. That was Belle's job.

But Belle wasn't here.

And she wasn't coming back.

Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the door, the darkness of his shades obscuring the sad glaze in his eyes as he stood back and waited.

When the door finally opened, short arms immediately reached out for him, and he quickly kneeled down, his other only source of joy running into his open arms as he hugged her tiny frame close, holding her.

"Daddy!" Lacey squealed with delight, bouncing on her little feet as he carefully picked her up. She was wearing her favorite blue dress today.

"Hey, sweetheart." He kissed her forehead, rubbing noses with her as she giggled.

From her view in the doorway, Mary Margaret smirked, the sadness in her eyes obvious as she watched father and daughter greet each other. Stepping out, she handed him Lacey's pink backpack. "No problems today."

Grinning at his daughter, Mr. Gold placed Lacey down as he took her bag. Holding them both along with his cane would be quite challenging. He looked at the petite school teacher. "Thank you," he told her sincerely, like he did every day.

She nodded. "Same time tomorrow?" When he nodded, she kneeled down and opened her arms as Lacey ran into them, their normal, routine departure. "Bye Lacey," she helped her shrug on her backpack, "you be a good girl for your daddy, and I'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay," the toddler replied in a cute voice, wobbling off to her father.

Caressing his daughter's head, Mr. Gold reached down and took the child in one arm, purposely avoiding to glance back as he descended down the stairway.

* * *

_**Two years ago...**_

Pregnancy was a delicate and a pain-in-the-ass process, but Belle enjoyed every minute of it as she gently caressed the side of her large womb, grinning down at it as her husband escorted her inside the hospital.

Dr. Whale was there every step of the way, monitoring her monthly check-ups while keeping track of her CF progress. From what he'd confirmed, everything was fine and dandy, but it was also very important for her to stay healthy. Because otherwise...

"Your lungs seemed to be holding up just fine," he informed near the end of her third trimester while she lay on the hospital bed, her husband patiently awaiting by her side as Dr. Whale prepared for the ultrasound. "But let's try to keep things stabled, alright?"

"I will," Belle promised, holding her husband's hand tightly.

"Pregnancy doesn't mix very well with what you have." Dr. Whale went on, smothering the cool gel onto her exposed belly. "But nothing you couldn't avoid handling." He glanced her a sly, knowing look.

"And the baby?" Mr. Gold wondered, concerned.

"The baby is just fine," the doctor didn't even look at him, which only served to heighten Gold's anxiety. He already knew he was going to lose Belle. He wouldn't allow them to lose his daughter as well.

Later that night, as they lay in bed together, Belle gently ran her fingers through her husband's hair as she gazed at him, the moonlight cascading an ethereal glow around them. He wasn't really sleeping, she knew. Just resting his eyes to enjoy the silent moment he had with her.

"Marry again, Rodrick. Promise me."

He opened his eyes then, the fear grabbing hold of every muscle, and his chest stiffened. "Actually" -he kept his tone casual- "I believe bigamy's still against the law."

"Rodrick, please." she whispered, fingers brushing against his cheek. This was not a time for joking. "You know what I mean."

He wished that he didn't. "I can't."

"Rodrick- "

"Belle, please." he implored quietly, moving close to her as possible. "We're about to have a baby, and you know what the stress does to you- "

"Rodrick," she repeated, more firmly this time. "I was advised not to have children, and you knew that. We _both_ did. Wouldn't you rather spend the rest of your life happily married to someone who isn't terminally sick? Someone who actually can give you kids while knowing your wife will live to see them grow up?"

When the sadness in his eyes became too much for her, she apologized, "I'm sorry. I just... I just want you to be happy."

It was true. Patients with CF were widely advised from procreation. And although Isabelle feared infecting any child she'd have with her illness, the fear of leaving her husband alone without a part of herself behind feared her more. Giving him this one last gift would've been enough. Then she could die a happy woman.

"After I'm gone I want you to fall in love and get married again," she continued.

"Don't, Belle." Sorrow and dread and anger took turns punching him in the stomach. "It's not going to happen."

Wrapping an arm around her waist, he leaned his head forward, catching her lips in a passionate kiss as he rested a hand atop of her round abdomen, smiling when he felt tiny feet kicking the inside of his palm. "Now look what you did," his teased in a rebuking way, "you woke her up."

They already knew what the baby's gender was.

"She's been up for quite a while now," Belle told him, smiling down at her stomach. "This little imp goes to sleep on her own time."

Rubbing her belly, he kissed her again, hoping that they'd be able to cherish more of these nights years in to come. That was the miracle he was waiting for.

Lying on his back, Belle rested her head against his shoulders, sighing contentedly as he began to play with her hair. "I still want you to marry again."

He rolled his eyes skyward. "You know what I'm going to do?"

"What?" She looked past his jumbled emotions, straight into his soul.

"When we celebrate our fortieth anniversary, I'm going to remind you of this conversation." He raised an eyebrow. "Imagine how silly you'll feel in front of the grandkids when I tell them how paranoid you were."

She laughed, slapping him on the shoulder. "Be nice."

"Just giving you a heads up, dearie."

Laying her head back down, she listened to his heartbeat, the steady rhythm comforting as she tried her best to drown out her worries. Then she lifted up her head to look at him. "Can we make a deal?"

He sighed, patting the back of her neck. "You're pretty demanding for a woman."

"I know." She grinned. "It's in my nature."

"Since I like being a gentleman for you, what's the deal?"

"Okay." She bit her lip. "Here it is: If I go before you, you'll get married again and- "

He shook his head. "I told you- "

"Wait..." She rested a finger to his lips. "Let me finish. If I go before you, you'll get married again. And if you go first... I'll remarry." She lifted her eyebrows. "How's that?"

His jaw hung open in mock surprise and he mouthed the word, _You? _"You'd remarry?"

With a speed he never knew she still possessed, she straddled him, her white nightgown clinging to her protruding belly as she pushed her palms on his shoulders. "I'm serious, Rodrick."

The humor left him. He stared at her, not sure what to say. "I can't, Belle." Lifting his hands, he caressed her womb tenderly.

"You can't?" Disappointment shaded her face. "You can't remarry?"

"No." He didn't blink, couldn't pull himself from her. "I can't believe you'll ever be gone."

* * *

Glowing reports on her lung function test and bacteria counts weren't enough for Isabelle Gold. He was sure of that himself. But in his world, she was strong, she was happy, and she was alive. The lies helped him sleep at night, but they couldn't stop the passing of days. One after another they came, each of them taking away a small part of Belle's good health.

Soon diabetes set in, and her kidney functions fell. Always the fear with bacterial infection. Her digestive system and pancreas could hold on well enough with cystic fibrosis, but once the bacteria settled in...

The pneumonia came.

Add it on with her pregnancy, she tired very easily, ate very little, and she carried a fever. Her coughs harder than ever before. Mr. Gold could only wished this was all just a nightmare, but as he slowly rocked his wife back and forth as she snuggled within his lap, her shivering form wrapped up in layers and layers of blankets, he knew that the worst had yet to come.

Soon, Dr. Whale placed her on oxygen and gave her doses of intravenous antibiotics and fluids, informing him for the worst. If her lungs didn't respond to treatment, if she didn't take it easy and build her strength back, she might never get better till the end of her days.

"I see," he stood next to Belle's hospital bed, looking hopeless than ever despite keeping his cool demeanor.

With a sad nod of his head, Dr. Whale folded his arms together. "It'd be a miracle if she lasts longer than a month."

"But if she stays in the hospital, wouldn't that..." he hated the way his voice cracked before he could finish the question.

Dr. Whale was biting his lip. "If it would make a difference, I'd keep her here for a month, but at this point... I think she'd be happier at home."

Somberly, Mr. Gold nodded, staring down at the cool linoleum of the floor.

"There is one other thing," Dr. Whale took a step beside him. "She's due for the baby any day now; but given her current circumstances..."

He knew right away of what the good doctor was implying, but they didn't have a choice. Belle was dying. A fate they would not reserve for the unborn child.

"How soon?" He glanced at the doctor, his expression stern.

Dr. Whale was already turning for the door. "We can start immediately."

Facing his darling wife once again, Mr. Gold slowly took a seat next to her bed, and wept, burying his face against her chest as he rested his arm atop of her still form.

They named her Lacey Lucinda Gold, and she was the most beautiful baby in the world. Isabelle had known from the moment the bloody little goblin was placed into her arms, her tiny lungs- healthy and strong- screaming out in protest at finally becoming welcomed into the real world.

Crying tears of overwhelmed happiness was inevitable for the both of them as Izzy stared down at the whining newborn, fingers barely touching her red cheek as she nestled the baby closer to her breast. "Hi, sweetheart," she whispered down with a quiet breath. "I'm your mama, and I've waited a lifetime to meet you."

With one arm wrapped around his wife's shoulder, Mr. Gold smiled down at his firstborn child, tenderly caressing her cheek with the back of his long finger. Even his finger was big against her! "Welcome to the family, Lacey. I'm your daddy; years to come, and you still won't have any idea just how much I love you."

All in all, the baby was healthy. It's a shame that the same thing couldn't be said for Isabelle. Minutes after their daughter was born, she was immediately treated with more antibiotics and a serious round of bacteria counts. The trauma of having to birthed the baby on their time leaving her under serious circumstances; ones that they couldn't afford to lose the baby with. Isabelle wouldn't have wanted that. Neither of them wouldn't have wanted that.

Stepping inside the hospital room, a bouquet of orchids in one hand, Moe French immediately felt his joyful expression falter as he saw Mr. Gold sitting in one of the chairs, gently cradling his baby daughter, but no Izzy. "Is she alright?"

Mr. Gold knew he was referring to Belle as he took his attention away from the little one. "Honestly... I don't know."

He didn't know what to do, and he sure as hell wouldn't know what to do if Belle were to die today. None of this was right. She was suppose to be healthy for at least a couple years more. She wasn't suppose to be feeling like this!

Dully, Mr. French nodded his head. Taking off his hat, he set the bouquet on the small table beside him. "Is... is this _her?" _he asked, standing beside his son-in-law. His overwhelmed emotions starting to get the best of him. "Is this my granddaughter?"

Smiling down at the snoozing infant, Mr. Gold replied, "Lacey- Lacey Lucinda Gold."

Tears began to form in the older man's eyes as he gazed down at the babe Mr. Gold and his daughter had created out of love. To him, there was no greater gift.

Holding out his hands, he asked, "May I?"

Mr. Gold was all too inclined to hand over the man his newborn grandchild.

* * *

Belle was to be kept in bed at all costs. It wasn't a suggestion, it was an order. In spite of all her carefully organized treatments, the bacteria was forming, too strong to be depleted, and her organs were failing.

This time, the both of them agreed she should follow the doctor's orders- at least until she recovered and her tests were back to where they'd been.

It was already July, three months after Lacey had been born. Despite the joy of having a baby to take care of together, Belle was getting weaker and weaker by the day, making it harder for her in tending to her infant's daily needs. Thank God for her husband, however. He'd made a vow to keep his Belle feeling happy and content, no matter how many hours of sleep it took from him as he fed Lacey one of her formula bottles in the early hours of the morning, hovering over his tired wife as she slept, looking even more damaged than ever before.

The pawn shop had been closed for days now.

"So..." Belle's eyes were swollen with restless slumber as she coughed, rib-jarring coughs, staring at the doctor. "How long do I have?"

"Honestly... I don't know." He folded his arms tight. "But it'll be soon."

Looking down she nodded, hugging her baby close to her chest. From her side, her husband stood, along with her father, the both of them looking just as grim.

"It'll get harder to breathe. Harder every day." He angled his head, his expression honest. "You'll know, Izzy."

* * *

Mary Margaret had stopped by a few days later, followed in by Ruby and her grandmother. It was a no-brainer to either of them that Isabelle wasn't going to get better any time soon, and that her time was growing shorter. Saying goodbye would be a painful parting, but it would also strengthen the bond of their friendship.

From their bedroom doorway Mr. Gold stood, his hardening face slightly relaxing as he watched Belle interact with the woman through the small sliver of the opened door. From behind him, Moe Fench sat in a chair, snoring away softly. The man had been up all night talking with his daughter. He deserved a good rest.

Although he could barely make out the words they were saying, his heart swelled with loving pride as she showed off their little girl, her animated smile conducting everything.

An hour later, he walked into the room no sooner than when their guests had left, his expression affectionate. "Hey."

She looked up at him, their wide-awake daughter now nursing a breast. "Hey," she smiled back.

After giving her a sweet kiss, he sat in the chair beside her. "Did you girls have fun talking?"

"We did," she replied, gazing back at the baby.

Mr. Gold nodded, biting his bottom lip as he looked at the baby as well. This was so hard. He didn't want to lose her. Not yet. "I'm scared," he admitted, his voice shaking.

She looked at him them, her eyes reflecting her own fears. "Me, too." She gave him her hand, and he clutched it desperately between his larger ones.

"I don't want to lose you," he whispered, chin trembling.

Not like this. Not like this...

Instead of giving into her own fears, Belle chuckled, lifting up her hand so that she could kiss his. "Come," she told him softly, her lips lingering over his warm skin, "sit behind me."

Complying, he stood up, and Belle scooted away from the mounds of pillows behind her. Once he had settled on top of the mattress she leaned back against him, his arms immediately falling around her and the baby as he held them close, never wanting to let go. He wouldn't let go!

"I'm trying to hold on, Rodrick," she told him quietly, mouth quivering as she nestled into his embrace, "I'm still trying."

"I know," he whispered against her ear, fighting the powerful urge to cry, fingers combing her frail, blond hair away from her cheek. "Don't ever stop." His voice became tight in his throat. "Don't give up. Everything will be fine. You'll see."

Belle gave a watery chuckle. "That's what... I love about you." She swallowed, every word a breathing struggle. "You never stop... believing in me."

"Always, sweetheart." His voice was hoarse as his breath hitched, and he tightened his hold on her, willing himself not to break. "I will _always_ believe in you."

When he started to feel her muscles slowly relax, he began to panic. It was bad enough she resembled almost a skeleton with skin and sunken, swollen eyes. She needed to stay strong. She needed to get through this with him!

Clenching his teeth, he began to beg, "Stay with me, Belle."

_ Please. Don't take her away from me! _

"I will." She tilted back her head long enough for him to kiss the side of her lips. "I'll just... never let go."

_That's it, Belle, that's it. Keep holding on._

She sounded so weak, so tired as she said those words to him, and it nearly killed him. "Don't let go," he fiercely hissed in a broken whisper, even as his own tears fell before hers. "You hear me, Isabelle? Don't you dare let go!"

_We have a thousand tomorrows in need of spending!_

Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back against his shoulder, hating the way his muscles trembled as he poured out his sorrows. "I won't." she whispered, the baby already fast asleep as he quickly covered up his wife's breast with a warm blanket. "I'm so sorry, Rodrick." The image before her fading into a blur as she slowly closed her eyes.

_I love you._

Isabelle Gabriella Gold died in his arms the next morning.

* * *

_**Present day...**_

The old anger came back.

Or maybe it wasn't the old anger, but a new, unfamiliar anger, a feeling of rage and helplessness and a strange sort of not knowing. Not knowing what to do or where to go or why he should be out of bed or how he was ever supposed to feel right again.

He worked himself harder than ever before. He snapped at innocent people just because they only glanced at him, and tackled the rent payments without so much as a word. The walls he had built before Belle thickening into an indestructible fortress.

"We all miss her," her father would tell him, the shades of his own sorrow obvious within his aging face. "If you want to talk, I'm here."

That's the problem. He didn't want to talk. He didn't want to do anything.

Except protect their daughter with every fiber of his being.

Sorrow was a lot like anger.

He could hide it from people, but it was there when he woke up, and when he closed his eyes at night. And nothing, not even talking to Belle's father, could make him feel better. He'd deal with the pain.

This time the dragon in need of slaying was sorrow, a sorrow that would end up killing him if he didn't fight it. With every tormenting limp of his leg he battled the sadness, the aching way he missed her.

But her death did teach him one thing: He needed to embrace it, entertain it, and finally, make peace with it.

That was also another problem. He didn't know how.

He was a walking zombie now; the man he had woken up to while looking into the mirror a complete stranger to the one he'd known when Belle was alive with him. His hair thinner and longer than ever, his cheekbones sharper, and he rarely shaved unless it was completely necessary. For a man at fifty years, he looked twice his age, and it was hard for people not to stare at him as he limped across the town center, his daughter in arm, the two of them heading back towards their lonely home of a house. Empty of joy.

"Mama!" The toddler suddenly squealed out happily, startling her father out of his stern reverie. Had he been staring at the ground the whole time he'd been walking? "Mama!"

She began to squirm like an angry snake, and afraid to drop her, he placed her down on her small feet, jaw dropping in horror as she hobbled/ran off away from him. "Lacey!" he called to her, limping as fast as his legs could carry him. The little minx! What if she were to trip and fall onto the road in front of an oncoming car? His heart pounding, he picked up the pace. She knew better!

But his girl did not trip onto the street like he feared, nor did she fall. In fact, she was embracing... the legs of a complete and total stranger. But one that he instantly recognized as he slowed to a halt not five feet away from them, breathless.

As she grew, Mr. Gold had seen it imperative that his daughter learn to memorize the face of her deceased mother. So every night, before he'd put her to bed and read her a story, he'd show her a new picture of Belle, some silly, some serious, some beautiful. "That's your mama, sweetheart," he would quietly tell her as they snuggled closely together in bed. The photo album wide open as he flipped through picture after picture. "Isn't she pretty?"

Lacey was smart, but still too young to know about the truth, and she never inquired after her mother. Ever.

But now...

"Well!" That voice- that perfect,_ perfect _voice- crooned with a laugh as she patted the top of his daughter's head fondly. "Hello there, little one! Aren't you just adorable!"

Startling blue eyes glanced up at him, and she smiled. "Oh, hi."

He didn't reply, _couldn't_ reply. And for the life of him, he couldn't tear himself away from those flawless irises as he kept on staring, feeling more and more like an idiot.

This wasn't real. It was all an imagination.

Patting the child once again the woman stood up, her slender fingers idly tucking away the stubborn strands of her brown hair. "Is she yours?" When he nodded stiffly, she beamed. "Well, she's absolutely a doll! And such beautiful hair and eyes..."

Soon Lacey began pouting for the attention and the woman laughed, sweeping her up into her arms. With a small smile, she faced the father once again. "How rude of me," walking a few feet forward, she stuck out her hand. "I'm Alayna- Alayna de Ravin."

Mouth finally closing, he mutely shook her hand, thankful for once that he was wearing his shades. It wouldn't do any good for her to see the pain and sadness within his eyes.

Smiling shyly, Alayna pulled back her fingers, her arm tucking underneath Lacey as she held her. "So... know of any motels around here that I could stay in?"

Perhaps it was a coincidence. Perhaps it was trickery. Perhaps it was mockery.

Or perhaps, Mr. Gold toyed with wonder, gazing down at the beautiful smile he knew too well in his dreams.

It was fate.

**x~X~x**

**That's all, folks! Also, I'm toying with the idea of writing a sequel, but really... it's all up to what you guys want.**

**So, howabout it? Do you guys want a sequel?**


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